


and through the darkness my love shines

by Neyasochi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ASMR AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dentist shiro, Keith has a big supportive family, M/M, Masturbation, Versatile Sheith, lotta fixation on Shiro's big hands, mechanic keith, previously a twitter fic thread
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-25 19:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20376928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: Desperately tired of lying awake until two in the morning, Keith turns to ASMR videos to help lull himself to sleep— and that's how he finds Shiro, a dentist-slash-ASMRtist with a gorgeous smile, handsome hands, and a dulcet voice that Keith can't get enough of.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Adapted from my fic thread on twitter!! Title is from Tiger Army.

It starts with a recommended video.

A chain of them, actually, which Keith lets play out one after another on a late night when sleep refuses to come no matter how he stretches and turns under the covers. His eyes glaze as he halfway watches videos of knife restoration, which segue into knife massages, and then onto a whole subset of youtube he’s never seen before— ASMR. It’s all whispers, the sounds of fingernails tapping on glass, flashlights shining across the screen, close-up videos of people pretending to give check-ups or haircuts or eye exams.

Slowly, his eyes droop shut. Something about the soft sounds filling the silence of his bedroom helps, like a TV with the volume lowered to a murmur. It works the next night, too, and the one after that, quickly becoming part of his nightly routine. But Keith doesn’t fully _get_ the appeal of ASMR until he first sees one of Shiro’s videos.

It’s the roleplay kind, which isn’t usually Keith’s thing; one-on-one social interactions are unpleasant enough to sit through in person, much less with a stranger across a screen pretending to know him. But he’s too tired to waste time on hunting for anything else, his limbs heavy and his patience worn thin from a long, busy day at work. And maybe he's just a _tiny_ bit curious about the masked, scrub-wearing man in the thumbnail, too.

From the start, this video hits differently. It looks like a real chair in a real dentist’s office, complete with an adjustable overhead light and cabinets that are probably stocked with floss. The walls feature corny motivational posters and phrases that Keith would resent being forced to stare at during a root canal, complete with a kitten clinging to a branch and _HANG IN THERE_ printed over its fuzzy head.

The camera blurs as the man recording reaches up to adjust the angle, the gleaming metal of a prosthetic arm coming into sharp focus. There are muffled thumps against the mic, soft murmurs as he tries to get it settled and recording in just the right position.

“Sorry, sorry. Still getting the hang of this,” he laughs, apologizing before the roleplay even properly starts. Then he settles on a wheeled stool beside the examination chair, scooting in nice and close.

Keith’s eyes widen a fraction, his sleepy interest replaced with something keen to rake over every detail of the man on his laptop screen. His pulse quickens in his chest at the sight of thick biceps bunching and straining under the sleeves of charcoal grey scrubs. Those strong arms lead to broad shoulders that fill the frame of the video with ease, a glimpse of his adam’s apple between the collar of his scrubs and the surgical mask tugged down under his chin, and then to a kind, scarred face with chiseled features.

And Keith can’t stop staring.

“Okay. Alright. Uh, I’m Dr. Shiro, if you haven’t seen me before," he says, a little nervous. Awkward. He puts on a thoughtful expression, head tilting slightly to one side. "So, what brings you in today?”

The acting can’t really be called... good. ‘Dr. Shiro’ has a tendency to smile whenever he looks up at the camera, blush slightly, and let his gaze slide away— like he’s still a bit shy and can’t forget that he’s performing for an audience, going through the motions with just a tiny camera rather than an actual patient.

But all that self-conscious uncertainty vanishes when he finally pulls the mask up over his nose and gets to the dental exam.

With his large, square-palmed hands held close to the camera, Dr. Shiro snaps his latex gloves on one after the other. The mic catches every tiny, rubbery squeak of the material as it’s tugged across tanned skin and glossy metal alike, the sounds drawing the faintest little tingles up and down Keith’s spine. Shiro is in his element here, speaking and moving with the rhythm of routine. His masked face hovers close to the screen as he mimes his way through a thorough and attentive checkup, the gorgeous stormcloud grey of his eyes a constant distraction.

Keith’s mouth goes dry as he imagines himself stretched out in the chair with those broad-palmed hands moving along his jaw to feel for tenderness, the latex dragging on his skin, that soft voice asking him to open wide as he slips thick fingers slip past his lips. It shouldn’t feel as _relaxing_ as it does. It shouldn’t soothe and stoke him like this, imagining a stranger invading his personal space with prying hands and hushed murmurs and direct eye contact.

But it does. It’s something to do with all the approving little comments Shiro makes in between his waxing on about the importance of flossing— the murmurs of “you’re doing so good,” and “beautiful teeth,” and “just keep doing what you’re doing.” And all the while, his gloved hands softly squeak as he goes through the practiced motions of a metal mirror checking back molars and a steely scaler picking teeth clean.

And as Shiro adjusts the overhead light and leans a little closer, his soothing voice muffled by the mask drawn over his mouth, the hair along Keith’s nape rises taut.

“A little bit wider,” Shiro murmurs, and the strangely pleasant tingle working its way up Keith’s spine and under his skull swells into an almost-full body sensation.

For a moment, Keith forgets that he’s lying alone in his bed above the garage, longing for sleep after a tiring day of fixing pickups and combing through junkers for spare parts. Under the calming stare of Shiro’s deeply grey eyes, all good intent and kindness, he feels seen and unalone. And as a deep, restful slumber takes him shortly after, it’s to the low, comforting pitch of Shiro’s voice, the faint rub of latex against latex, the muffled brush of his hands too close to the mic.

It takes the next two nights, but Keith picks up where he left off and proceeds to burn through every video on Shiro’s channel. Each one is a little more polished than the last, Shiro’s confidence growing over the course of passing months. Somewhere along the way, he upgrades to a better camera, which only gives Keith more reason to marvel over his gorgeous skin and long lashes and the perfect fade of his two-toned hair. A few videos later, Shiro’s new binaural mic makes a spine-tingling debut; it feels like Shiro is whispering directly into Keith’s ear, close enough to leave him shivering as he’s lulled to sleep.

Most of Shiro’s channel remains dental themed— teeth whitenings, dental cleanings, and one very cute Halloween video titled ‘ASMR roleplay: clueless dentist examines you, a vampire’— but in recent months he’s branched out from what is clearly his comfort zone.

In some videos, Shiro skips the roleplaying and focuses on trying out sound triggers in his new binaural mic, happily fulfilling viewer requests for snaps, crinkling plastic, and the brushing of hair. In others, Shiro uses only his voice, repeating positive affirmations that stick in Keith’s head for days, little bits of encouragement and kindness that he finds himself thinking of as he digs around in engine guts and deals with asshole customers at the front desk.

There are even a few videos where Shiro says nothing at all, which Keith considers almost criminal— until he discovers that he’s just as sleepily entranced by the concerted movements of Shiro’s hands as he slices vegetables for dinner or the flexing of his fingers in new motorcycle gloves.

The squeeze of Shiro’s hands into snug leather gloves sticks in Keith’s mind through the night and into daylight hours; he has a bike to go with those gloves, Keith figures. He itches to leave a comment asking what make and model, what color. And to request a video of Shiro working on it, eager to listen to his soothing voice while watching his hands take something apart.

But that’s weird. Really fucking weird, and even weirder to request of anyone else, much less a total stranger, so Keith keeps that longing tucked away to himself and enjoys whatever content Shiro decides to put out.

Like the one lone personal update video featuring him showing off his prosthetic and finally laying to rest the repeated questions of how he got it, along with the scar over his nose and the faded burns that peek from under the sleeves and collar of his scrubs. An accident. Military.

Shiro is tight-lipped about it, less at ease before the camera as he addresses what’s clearly a sore and achingly private part of his past. Breaking his usual policy of silent lurking, Keith scrolls down to leave a supportive comment on the months-old video, however brief and poorly composed— only to find the comments have been disabled.

There’s a noticeable gap between that video and the next, months later, when Shiro returns with a new roleplay as a workout instructor. And he looks _good_ in it. He looks good in all of them, really, but there’s a painfully targeted appeal in seeing Shiro wearing a stretchy white tank top in what looks like a personal gym, murmuring encouragement in between explaining the proper forms for push-ups and biceps curls.

The most recent video on Shiro’s channel is just him curled on his couch, reading aloud from his favorite fantasy novel series, _Monsters & Mana_. He’s handsome in his round-framed reading glasses and fuzzy white sweater, and though he’s bad at character voices— terrible, really— he’s so enthusiastic about the story that it hardly matters. And when Shiro asks if his followers would be interested in seeing a roleplay from him as a paladin from _Monsters & Mana_, Keith is part of the resounding clamor in the comments section.

Two weeks later, Keith is treated to the sight of Shiro in a suit of armor straight from a local renaissance fair. Under the hood of his cloak and nearly lost amid the white of his hair, he's even got a delicate, silvery circlet. After an exposition-heavy monologue about his tragic past, Shiro— Jiro, that is— valiantly acts out a whole scene of giving the viewer a quest and helping them to prepare for the journey. His props include a foam sword and a ‘relic of light’ that looks like it might be a glowstick.

Keith loves that Shiro’s clearly having fun with the roleplaying, the unabashedly nerdy display on the screen worlds apart from how tentative he’d been in his early videos. He loves the way Shiro’s shoulders bunch as he leans forward on the table, too. And how low his voice dips when he warns them about the coranic dragon, a gentle rumble that leaves Keith nibbling his lower lip. And then there’s how Shiro reddens as he pushes his circlet back into place for the sixth time, visibly frustrated with the cheap costume tiara.

It’s inevitable, maybe, that first time Keith’s hand slips under his waistband while watching one of Shiro’s videos. With his eyes closed against the empty dark of his bedroom, he touches himself to the smooth, low murmur of Shiro’s voice as he paints a scale model of the Calypso that he put together in an earlier video. It’s all entirely mundane talk of space and his fascination with it, but Shiro could recite his grocery list and it would still probably do things to Keith, probably. It’s all in the way he speaks and how he sounds— that feeling like he’s speaking to Keith alone, even through a screen and anonymity and untold miles.

The heat that’s been simmering under his skin sinks down to pool within his belly, radiating a hazy, comforting warmth. Keith indulges it, stroking himself to murmurs about distant nebulae and stardust, his teeth pressed into the cushion of his bottom lip. Lazy with the need for sleep, he lolls his head to the side to stare at the close-up on Shiro’s hands and the delicate brush swallowed up in his grip. The latex gloves he wears accentuate every crook of his finger, strain around the breadth of his palms, stretch tight whenever he forms a fist; grey and orange paint gradually smudges over their crisp white as Shiro works, his large hands maneuvering the model craft with ease.

Keith pictures those hands on him instead— spread expansively over his chest, dug into his hips, palming up his thighs. He imagines the feel of latex catching on his skin as they trail down his stomach and between his legs, those skillful fingers curling snug around him.

The tingle running down Keith's spine is different now, more tangible, enough to make him squirm under the covers. He thinks of the words murmured in his ear turning husky and raw, Shiro's voice deepened with the same kind of need Keith feels welling in him like steam trapped in a human vessel. He imagines Shiro _saying his name_.

It’s a quick climax, intense enough to curl Keith’s toes and raise his hips off the bed, a silent cry in the shape of Shiro’s name on his lips. The aftermath is messy and warm, shiny streaks of his own come spread over his belly. And it’s deeply satisfying, too, despite the twinge of embarrassment that rises up in the wake of his fading arousal. Getting off to porn is one thing, but this is… a new depth of horny.

Shiro's voice lingers in the quiet of the bedroom, some twenty minutes left before it ends. Keith’s eyelids droop. His skin cools, the mess on his stomach drying down to a tacky mess. Bonelessly content, he practically melts into the mattress.

Shiro becomes his nightly routine and Keith’s never slept better. He still tries other ASMRists from time to time, but Shiro’s channel is always the last thing he plays each night. He’s the last person Keith sees. The last voice he hears, that sweet little nudge to push him over the edge and into relaxed slumber.

As the full heat of summer settles in, it gets harder for Keith to stay comfortable in his room above the garage. He sheds his pajamas and reverts to sleeping in just his boxers, pushing his quilt aside and kicking even the top sheet down to his ankles, the ceiling fan spinning above him on its highest speed. And when he wakes, skin sticky with a thin layer of sweat, it’s usually to the laptop he left open, its darkened screen lighting to life with a frozen image of Shiro.

Keith stares for a few long moments, lingering on the pretty curve of his lips and the handsome fall of his hair, now slightly grown out from his old undercut. Then he sighs and slaps the laptop shut, wipes his drool away with the back of his hand, and rolls himself to the edge of the bed.

He’s not quite running late as he trots downstairs, but it’s a near thing. Kolivan’s a stickler about punctuality and being his nephew only invites more lecturing and disappointed frowns when he’s anything less than exemplary.

“Hey, hey, hey,” his dad calls out from the kitchen when he catches sight of Keith pulling on his work boots out in the hall. “No leaving without breakfast. Or your lunch.”

“I know,” Keith sighs as he finishes tying his laces. He bounces lightly into the kitchen, antsy to be on his way; immediately, he’s handed an insulated lunch bag that must weigh five pounds and a hastily assembled breakfast burrito.

“See? I even made it to-go for you,” his dad smiles, one hand braced against the countertop and the other on his apron-covered hip.

Keith chews through scrambled eggs and sausage that are pre-slathered in hot sauce. “It’s great, dad,” he says, muffled through a full mouth. “Thanks, but I’ve got to go. You know how Kolivan is about—”

“I’ve met your uncle, yes,” his dad cuts in, witheringly dry. “By the way, tell him and Antok that I want my pieplate back already. It’s been two weeks now and I need it for my lemon meringue.”

Reluctantly, Keith promises to be the message-bearer-slash-pieplate-procurer and tries not to drip hot sauce on his dad as they hug goodbye. He skips his way down the front steps of the porch and shoves the last third of the burrito into his mouth before pulling on his helmet.

There’s a good stretch of road between their house and the town proper, long and straight and mostly flat. Keith glances behind himself to check for the familiar silhouette of the sheriff’s car and then opens up his bike, shooting twenty, thirty miles over the speed limit as he clears miles of empty shrubland.

He only slows as buildings and other cars come into view, conscious of how much attention his cherry red racing bike can draw. At one of the town’s six stoplights, he waits with his boots braced on the asphalt, worrying for time; he guns it as soon as the light lazily turns green and manages to make it to the garage just shy of being late.

His face is already sheened with sweat and his hair a little damp as he trades his helmet for a ponytail, but that’s just the beginning. Even with industrial sized fans blowing air through the garage, the summer heat creeps in and simmers along the concrete pad and steel walls. As Keith works on his first job of the day— fixing an aged Honda’s AC— the heat leaves its mark on him. Sweat darkens the fabric under his arms and over his chest, even dipping down to the small of his back. It beads along his brow, wiped away by the lifted hem of Keith’s shirt only to spring up anew within minutes.

It’s nearly noon, sweltering and breezeless, when Kolivan shows up with a clipboard and a heavier frown than usual.

“This morning, your mother dropped off a motorist she found stranded on the side of the highway. I had Regris tow the car in and it’s…” He flips a page up. “Not good. Antok’s already gone through and given his recommendations. I’d like you to deliver the news, though, if you don’t mind,” Kolivan says, handing off the clipboard.

Keith catches a quick glance at himself in the polished chrome of a bumper sitting on nearby workbench. Oil and grime fleck their way up to his elbows. Sweat coats him like a second skin. What strands of hair have come loose from his ponytail hang limply around his face, plastering to his skin. “Why me?”

Kolivan sighs. “Antok already started microwaving our lunch casserole. If I don’t get there soon, it’ll be gone. Keith… it’s one customer.”

“Alright,” Keith shrugs, hastily cleaning off his hands on a spare rag. It’s a solid excuse to spend an extra fifteen or twenty minutes in the AC, at least, however gross he looks for the time being. He grabs a handful of workshop paper towels thick enough to mop up engine grease and runs them over his face and under his shirt, mopping himself up as much as possible. Then he ducks into the lobby, skimming the page on the clipboard Kolivan gave him for a name. The air conditioning buffets Keith like an arctic blast, but it’s more than welcome after the morning he’s had.

Inside, there’s only one customer waiting. Tall and broad-shouldered, he stands at the far end of the lobby, facing away as he stares out the wide windows at fence-ringed fields and shrubland and clear blue sky.

Keith double checks the name printed on the forms in his hand. “Uh, Takashi Shirogane?”

While the man makes his way over, Keith drops his gaze back to the clipboard, hurriedly reviewing the condition of the Volvo. True to Kolivan’s word, it’s not going to be a quick or easy fix, and Keith gives a dry little sigh. As if being the bearer of such bad news isn’t shitty enough, he’ll also be on the receiving end of any nastiness the customer decides to spew upon hearing the cost.

A soft little rap against the countertop registers as almost… familiar. Keith glances up from the messy scrawl of Antok’s handwriting, unsurprised to see a set of wide shoulders and a chest covered by a taut NASA tee. He _is_ surprised, however, to see a steely prosthetic extending from its right sleeve.

A metal hand gently taps out a rhythm against the counter as its owner patiently waits for Keith’s acknowledgement. It’s all shiny, lightweight aluminum with flexible black polymers along the joints, and Keith’s seen one just like it hundreds of times before.

Not that that means anything. _Probably just standard for the VA_, his mind hurries to rationalize even as Keith’s thought swirl and center on the one person he knows— however indirectly— with the same exact prosthetic.

Heart thumping heavy in his chest, Keith lifts his gaze up to the man’s face. He’s met with a smile, polite even after a terribly inconvenient morning that involved the town sheriff giving him a lift and hours waiting in an auto shop lobby. Polite and _instantly recognizable_.

“Sh-Shiro,” Keith cheeps out as he stares into the same grey eyes he’s looked into almost every night for six months— same scar, same two-toned hair, same pretty smile and gorgeous lashes. His knees buckle and if not for the counter, Keith’s wobble would’ve ended worse.

He can feel himself physically turning the color of a beet as he takes in the sheer size of Shiro, who stands a head taller, twice as broad, his torso alone enough to comfortably smother Keith. He’s real and _really here_, and somehow even more stunning than his nice new camera can capture.

Keith sees that as both a blessing and a curse.

“How— yeah, that’s my nickname,” Shiro replies, his bright smile faltering, turning nervous. “How do you— oh. Oh, shit. The videos?” he asks in a dropped whisper, as if they aren’t utterly alone within the lobby.

“Yeah,” Keith answers, nodding furiously. His grip around the clipboard tightens, viselike, the edges of the papers tearing the slightest bit. He tries— and fails, noticeably and miserably— not to stare directly at Shiro. There’s just _so much_ of him, every inch impressive, and Keith can scarcely believe they’re breathing the same air.

There’s a long, stilted silence afterward where Shiro doesn’t look like he knows what to say. It’s a paralyzed, deer-in-headlights stare while his mouth opens and shuts, nervous laughter slipping out before he apologizes and presses his lips tight together.

Keith quails.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, feeling sweatier than he was outside a few minutes ago. He stares down at the clipboard again, not reading a word of it, and prays the embarrassed heat under his skin leads to spontaneous human combustion. It’s his time to go. He can’t recover from this.

But no fire and flames come to mercifully deliver him from the wonderful, awful moment. _Damn._

“You had a c-coolant leak, which is why the engine overheated in the first place,” Keith explains, trying to force his way past the awkwardness of the interaction. With luck, Shiro will leave here without thinking any worse of him than he already does. An uncomfortable blip, max. “Blown head gasket, too, which— sorry, that’s real shitty. We can do the repairs, but we’ll have to overnight the replacement part for your model. Could be Tuesday before it’s ready to drive again. Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. He smiles again, but it’s there and gone. A blush warms his cheeks, deepening the contrast with his scar. It even crowns the tips of his slightly overlarge ears, which Keith finds distractingly cute. “What’ll it run me?”

Shiro winces and whistles low when he gives him the estimate, but Keith knows the total’s fair. Kolivan is only ever fair.

“Alright,” Shiro says, already fishing out his wallet. “Do I need to pay anything now, or just after?”

“After.” Keith stares a moment longer, desperately wanting to do something for him. Anything to make up for gawking and chirping his name like a starstruck weirdo when Shiro’s just trying to get through a shitty morning gone awry. He wants to fix this, to brighten Shiro’s day and make his unforeseen detour through their six-stoplight town a little less costly and miserable. What he _really_ wants to do is lean across the counter and offer Shiro a discount, suave and cool and memorable in a _good_ way.

Kolivan will kill him.

“I’ll do the labor for free,” Keith offers. This way, it’s a loss to no one but him— although he imagines Kolivan will have plenty of questions as to why he’d work hours unpaid for the stranded motorist his mother happened upon.

“No,” Shiro says, his voice the firmest Keith’s ever heard it. It sends a little bite of a shiver down his spine, making him straighten up stiff. “I mean, no, it’s alright. I appreciate the gesture, but I can pay. I don’t mind paying, really.”

Keith swallows down whatever he’d been about to say— another insistence, maybe, that Shiro let him make it up to him somehow— and closes his mouth tight. He nods and starts filling out empty spaces on the form pinned to the clipboard, getting a jumpstart on the paperwork.

“Uh, I’m sorry,” Shiro says while Keith writes, upper body leaning over the counter and closer to Keith’s space. “About— uh, being weird. Just before. This is the first time anyone's ever recognized me. I have no idea what to say. It’s kind of mortifying,” he admits, licking his lips nervously.

“Mortifying?” Keith stops jotting down notes. “Why?”

“Well, ostensibly, you’ve seen me… p-playing dress-up as a paladin, for one,” Shiro laughs, looking everywhere but at Keith. “Exercising my wide range of bad acting, for another. And that time I did that awful accent?"

“What? I really liked that one,” Keith counters, smiling at the mere memory of it. Sven had been a character request that Shiro had tried valiantly to fulfill, with... mixed results. “You looked like you were having fun with it. Struggling, maybe, but having fun.”

“I was. I was having fun," Shiro says, eyebrows lifting, and already he looks a touch relieved. "It’s just— it’s easier to put it out there without knowing the people watching? It’s a little different to look someone in the eye and know they’ve seen you do the world’s worst novice tarot reading. Complete with sound effects.”

“I liked that one, too,” Keith blurt out, tilting his head as Shiro bashfully turns aside. “I’m Keith, by the way.”

“Keith! Keith,” Shiro says, eyes wide and his metal hand immediately held out. “My apologies for not asking sooner. I just got thrown for a little bit of a loop.”

“Understandably. I’m sure it’s been a hell of a day for you so far,” Keith says, slotting his palm against Shiro's as they shake. The metal plates are warm, the black polymer soft on his skin.

“You could say that,” Shiro replies, raking his other hand through his hair.

“I’m really sorry about the car. There’s a rental place like five minutes from here if you’re in a hurry somewhere,” Keith offers. “You could come pick it up whenever you pass back through.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m on vacation, actually, so it’s not like I’m missing anything important." Shiro smiles. "Just piña coladas on the beach.”

Keith looks out the window. As far as the eye can see, it’s cloudless blue skies, dusty plains, and dull brown brambles— hardly the stuff of great vacations. “Ouch. Must be disappointing to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere when you could be spending those two nights on the beach.”

“It’ll be fine,” Shiro shrugs. “I’m sure there’s plenty for me to do around here, right? You’d be the one to know."

Keith braces his elbows on the counter and leans forward. This close, he can smell the copious sunscreen on Shiro’s skin, and underneath it there’s a note of something like mint. “Well, there’s just the one motel, so I hope you like Super 8,” he starts, pulling up a map on his phone. “Here’s the good McDonald’s. And this is the McDonald’s with recurring roach incidents, so…”

“Duly noted,” Shiro nods, leaning over to get a better look at Keith's screen.

“Here’s the best bar in town, but I wouldn’t try their piña coladas. Vrepit Sal's is fine. Oh, this gas station here has really good Thai food, I eat there all the time. But don’t go to this one,” Keith adds, tapping the screen, “unless you like hot dogs of questionable age and origin.”

“Not a fan,” Shiro says, nose wrinkling, and the way he says it— the fine expressions he makes— captivate.

“Well, now you know the lay of the land,” Keith says, tucking his phone back in his pocket. “Not that there’s much to know. It’s a pretty small town. Not a lot to do around here.”

Shiro looks at him, thoughtful, and Keith is rooted to the spot. Months of meeting his gaze through a screen can’t compare to the sight of him up close, living and breathing and existing in the same space together. They grey of his eyes is more intense in person, his irises threaded with bands of warm silver and almost-taupe; they’re even kinder, too, open and gentle even with a grimy mechanic he barely knows.

“So what do _you_ do?” Shiro asks, unmistakably curious.

About _him._ Keith.

“Me?” Keith asks, and Shiro's expectant look is almost too much. He can only be honest, dull as it may be. "Nothing to write home about. I like to go for long drives and fix cars. I hike. I draw.” He nibbles on his bottom lip, considering. “And I watch a lot of your videos.”

Shiro ducks his head, smiling to himself even as he plants his hands on his hips and turns a red to rival the color of Keith’s bike. He shoots Keith a furtive glance, as if uncertain of meeting his gaze head-on. “Yeah? And you like them? Really?”

“Shiro, I— yeah, of course. They put me right to sleep.” Keith nearly trips over his own tongue as he rushes to add, “In a good way! In the _best_ way, Shiro. I practically can’t sleep without you. Them. The videos.”

For all Keith’s stumbling, his words— for once— seem to work. Shiro cracks a toothy smile and looks a little less sheepish, like maybe he’s finally convinced that Keith thinks no less of him for his dramatic re-enactments of story passages and his whole-hearted roleplaying.

“It can’t be that much of a surprise to you,” Keith murmurs, tempted to lean in another few inches. They’re already so close that he can see the flex of muscle under the softspun, skin-tight cotton of Shiro’s tee and hear the low gurgle of what might be his growling stomach. “Don’t you have like four-hundred thousand followers?”

“Something like that,” Shiro laughs, the sound soft and wonderful and definitely a rarity to hear in his videos. “But like I said, you’re the first person who watches them that I’ve spoken to face-to-face about it. It’s, um… I’m really glad they’ve helped.”

“I’d still be up until two in the morning every night if not for you, so… yeah. Thanks. And I even started flossing because of your videos. Regularly, I mean. Every night now.”

“Because of me?” Shiro straightens up, looking flattered by the admission. As Keith juts his chin out and nods, Shiro lays a hand over his heart. “Dentistry compliments don’t come much higher than that.”

Keith grins. He’s tempted to tell Shiro that he’d taken up reading _Monsters & Mana,_ too, and kept his advice in mind whenever he worked out now. But his thoughts slide back to all the _other_ things he’s done with Shiro’s voice lingering in his ear, and suddenly Keith flusters anew.

He clears his throat and changes course back to the job Kolivan gave him. “Uh, if you could fill your number in here, I’ll give you a call when the part comes in,” he hurriedly explains, handing Shiro the clipboard and a pen. “And I’ll let you know as soon as the repairs are finished and you can come pick up your car.”

“Oh. Sure. Thanks, Keith,” Shiro says, expression fading to something a little more serious as he jots down a string of numbers.

“No problem,” Keith croaks back, already replaying the sound of his name in Shiro’s voice— soft and honey-sweet, personal, approving.

As Shiro hands the clipboard back, he taps the pen against the page, pointing out the line with his number scribbled next to it. “You can, uh, text me. If you want.”

“Text you?” Keith tentatively questions, wondering if Shiro only means he’d rather not be called. It’s partly to manage his own expectations and partly because he can’t quite compute the notion of Shiro wanting to interact with him in any other capacity; regardless, Keith’s heart makes a racket in his chest, egging him to hope for more.

At once the blush under Shiro’s skin seems to fade, along with the rest of his color. “You don’t have to,” he whispers in the tone of an apology. “I just figured—”

“No! No, I will,” Keith promises, looking from Shiro down to the paper in his hand. Beside the phone number, there’s a lopsided little doodle of a smiley face.

“Great! Okay. Great. Thank you.” Shiro takes a few steps backward, til his calves bump into one of the chairs arranged in the middle of the lobby. He apologizes, spins to straighten the chair, and waves goodbye as he pushes out the front door, tugging along his suitcase as he goes.

And then it’s deafeningly quiet, aside from the mechanical ticks of the clock on the lobby wall. Still warm and giddy from meeting Shiro, Keith places the order for the Volvo’s new gasket head and is nearly done with the paperwork when the bell above the door chimes.

It’s Shiro, with his luggage in hand.

“Uh, hi. Again,” he greets, and this time he’s red-faced from bright midday sun outside. “So… I was hoping to get some lunch and head to the motel, but I’ve since realized there’s zero uber or lyft presence around here.”

“Oh. Yeah, we don’t have that,” Keith says, wondering just how long Shiro stood in the sweltering heat while reviewing his options. “But I can arrange for someone from the rental place to come pick you up, if you’re planning on renting a car.”

Shiro hums, knuckles rapping against the counter as he mulls it over. “I was kind of hoping to avoid it, since I'll only be here a day and a half,” he says, sighing. "But maybe that’d be best. Better than walking there, anyway. I might melt.”

"Might." Keith eyes the sleek suitcase Shiro holds, polished and branded and clearly tiers above the cheap duffle bag Keith uses. Drag it across town once, over gravel and dusty earth, and it’d never be the same. “I’d offer to give you a lift, but that won’t fit on my bike.”

“A bike, huh?” Shiro asks, brightening. “What kind?”

“A Suzuki GSX-R1000, but I made it red. Very red.” He grins as Shiro whistles appreciatively, the sound going right down his spine. “I’ve always wondered what you drive, you know. Ever since you did the video with the gloves.”

“A Hayabusa, all black,” Shiro replies, beaming, and Keith can picture him bent over one with perfect ease, in all dark leather to match. “Wanted one since I was a kid, flipping through my grandpa’s magazines. I’ll have to show it off in a video sometime so you can check it out.”

“I’d like that,” Keith says, voice drifting low as he thinks of riding snug against Shiro, of racing him. He bites his lower lip and lets it loose slow. “You know, if you don’t mind riding in the back of the sheriff’s car again, I can arrange you a free ride to the motel later.”

Shiro perks, interested, and then seems to second-guess himself. “Are you sure that won’t be an inconvenience? Sheriff Kogane’s bailed me out once today already.”

“Nah, she won’t mind,” Keith snorts, shooting his mom a quick text. “And in the meantime, I could go pick up some lunch for you? Or give you a ride? Maybe to the good McDonalds. Your suitcase’d have to stay here, though.”

“Oh! No, that’s alright, I don’t want to be a bother.” Shiro turns to the sad little vending machine sitting in the lobby’s corner, its shelves stocked with the kinds of candy dentists probably have nightmares about. “I’ll just… have that,” he says, already sounding disappointed.

“Shiro…” Keith’s own stomach growls at the mere mention of food, reminding him that it’s well past his usual lunch hour; the realization sparks a new suggestion. “Hey, you know what? My dad always packs me a huge lunch. We could split it together.”

Keith grimaces as soon as the words leave his mouth, hating that he sounds like a ten-year-old in a school cafeteria. Nothing better than being twenty-four and broadcasting the fact that his dad still packs his lunch in front of the hottest man he’s ever seen, heard, or spoken to.

“I— Keith, no, I can’t take your lunch,” Shiro says, though the second look he shoots at the vending machine is uncertain. Reluctant. Wavering. In clear disagreement, his stomach lets out a groaning peal that leaves him blushing in embarrassment.

“It’s fine, really,” Keith insists. “It’s more than I can eat alone anyway.”

That’s a lie— Keith’s never met a meal he can’t polish off, even if it never shows on his wiry, narrow frame— but he doesn’t want Shiro making himself miserable for the sake of being polite.

“I don’t want to put you out,” Shiro insists. But there’s a slight hitch in his breath before his shoulders sag a little, a sigh deflating him even as he looks hopeful. “But I would love a bite of something that isn’t pure sugar. If you really don’t mind.”

“I really don’t,” Keith assures just before he bolts.

It’s a quick sprint down the hall to the breakroom, Keith only slowing as he passes the office where Kolivan and Antok sit eating their casserole. He weaves through the various cousins and family friends that also work at the shop and fishes his bag from the fridge, darting out before anyone can ask him anything. By the time he returns to the lobby, Shiro is already seated on the couch with a paper cup filled with cooler water on the coffee table in front of him. Keith perches on the edge of a cushion at the far end, doing his best to provide Shiro a comfortable amount of space.

He unzips the insulated bag and prays that his dad didn’t have the time to make one of those cutesy lunches he loves to post to his instagram. All he wants is something simple; like leftover dumplings, maybe, or hummus and veggies. Chicken wraps. Japchae. Literally anything that doesn’t scream _I’m a baby._

As he peels off the lid of the large plastic container inside, Keith’s lips thin.

His lunchbox is stuffed with vegetables sliced into stars and flowers, boiled egg hippos, hot dog octopi, two sandwiches cut into cat shapes, and a generous slice of apple pie for dessert.

“Wow. This is— wow. It’s so cute,” Shiro says, grinning as he draws a leg up onto the couch and scoots closer. He marvels at each element, gingerly picking up a radish cut like a rose. “Your dad made all this?”

“Y-yeah. It’s a hobby of his,” Keith explains, relieved Shiro finds it sweet. He lays the boxed lunch on the cushion between them and offers Shiro a fork. “He loves trying new recipes and playing with the presentation. He’s been making them like this since I was a kid.”

Shiro smiles at that, quietly thanking Keith as he’s handed a cat-shaped sandwich and a pickle decorated like a crocodile. “It’s almost too adorable to eat,” he says before taking a hungry bite anyway.

Keith eats slow for once, savoring the extension of his time with Shiro and glad that he seems to be enjoying the homemade meal. What would’ve taken Keith all of ten minutes to devour alone, they manage to stretch over half an hour. It’s not a busy day at least, and for that Keith is grateful. They remain the only two people in the lobby as they split the slice of pie and talk about their bikes, their favorite foods, the sunny beach vacation Shiro’d planned, hoping to make the most of his first time off since starting his dental practice.

While Shiro shows him pictures of the airbnb he’d booked, Keith crosses his arms tight and curbs a frown. _That’s_ where Shiro should be by now, flopped on a plush bed with white linens and a seaside view, surrounded by luxury and upscale seafood places. It’s where he _deserves_ to be.

Instead, he’s here— saddled with an unexpected auto bill in the thousands, sharing lunch with a stranger, and destined for a one-star motel with cheap, rough sheets. The disparity bothers Keith more than it does good-natured Shiro, maybe. As Shiro smilingly rambles about his plans to visit the local maritime history museum and explore tide pools, Keith finds himself wondering when the new Volvo part will arrive, how late he’d have to work to get Shiro back on the road to the beach in a single day. How soon he’ll need to say goodbye…

“Thanks for taking such good care of me. Never been to an auto shop where they offered me lunch,” Shiro sighs as he settles back into the couch cushions, noticeably more at ease. “It was way better than McDonalds, by the way.”

“My dad’ll be thrilled to hear that,” Keith smiles as he zips up the lunch box and sets it aside. “And I’m happy to help, honestly. It’s the least I can do for you.”

“The least you can do?” Elbow propped on the back of the couch and his chin in his palm, Shiro searches him with deep grey eyes. “This morning, I was upset. Miserable, even. But you turned my day around, Keith.”

Keith’s heart flutters, a full-body tingle running under his skin. It’s something about the way Shiro looks at him, head tilted fondly and his handsome face plain in its concern. It’s the way he gives praise, sincere and encouraging, that makes Keith ache to earn more.

A notification across Keith’s phone screen catches his eye— one of his mom’s characteristically brief texts. He sinks into the cushion, already mourning Shiro’s departure. “Looks like the sheriff’s gonna be here to pick you up in a minute.”

“Oh. That’s good,” Shiro says, sitting up straight and wrapping prosthetic fingers around the handle of his luggage. “I can finally get out of your hair for a while, huh? Been tying you up too long.”

“No, I like it,” Keith hurries to tell him. “You can tie me up anytime.”

There’s a beat of silence in which Keith shuts his mouth with a quiet click of his teeth and Shiro only stares, his cheeks bright.

“There’s the car,” Keith breathes as soon as he sees the familiar tan and brown of his mother’s cruiser pull up outside, never happier to see her. He wipes his palms down his thighs as he rises, nervous sweat making him clammy all over. With his head down and gaze firmly lowered to the floor, he darts to the door and holds it open for Shiro, who nods and squeezes past— but not before appraising Keith with another long, thoughtful look.

Once outside, the afternoon heat hits like the opening of an oven. Light glares off of pavement and white-bricked buildings, the soles of Keith’s boots almost sticky against the poured concrete. He shields his eyes with a hand as the passenger window of the cruiser rolls down.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Shirogane,” Keith’s mom calls from the driver’s seat, leaning over to better view the two of them through the open window. Despite the dark-tinted sunglasses she wears, Keith can distinctly feel when her stare slides over to him. “I see you’ve met Keith.”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s been a real a lifesaver,” Shiro tells her, smiling broadly at Keith before wheeling his suitcase around the back of the cruiser to stow it in the trunk.

As soon as Shiro’s out of earshot, Krolia lifts her aviators a scant inch just to shoot Keith a witheringly knowing look. She smiles, equal parts sly and sympathetic, her gaze briefly flitting up to the rear view mirror. “You got your good taste from me, you know.”

“Mom, don’t. Please,” Keith sighs, leaning into the open window; the running AC feels like heaven on his feverish skin. The car’s frame bounces lightly as Shiro closes the trunk, and already Keith doubts the wisdom in letting his mother be alone with him. She knows too much.

But there’s no time to back out now, with Shiro already sliding into the backseat and buckling himself in. So Keith takes a breath and sticks most of his upper body through the window, eyes only for Shiro. “Um, if you need a ride anywhere in the next day or so, just let me know.”

“Thanks, Keith. I’ll probably have to take you up on that.” Shiro’s smile is soft, almost shy, and he hesitates before adding, “I, uh, won’t have your number until you text me first, though.”

“I will as soon as I get back inside,” Keith promises, heart leaping in his chest as Shiro grins. He looks to his mom, who’s watching him with her chin in her hand and a wry smile on her lips, and pats the searing hood of the car. “Drive safe, Sheriff.”

He waves goodbye as the brown and tan cruiser pulls out, leaving him alone under the boiling sun. For a few blistering moments after, Keith stands and watches til the car disappears around a corner.

Then Keith darts back inside to rifle through Shiro’s paperwork, eagerly saving the number into his phone. It takes minutes to compose a text, his sweaty thumbs hovering over the screen as he types, then deletes, then types again. He tries to sound clever, to sound cool. Maybe cute, even. He even considers just sending a decent selfie in lieu of writing anything at all.

But in the end, he commits to a simple and failproof: _hey, it’s keith_

As Regris and Antok start buzzing around, Keith surreptitiously pockets his phone and tries to get back to work. Tries, because his thoughts keep turning back to Shiro no matter how busy his hands become. There’s a heat inside of him now that has nothing to do with summer breathing down his back. It burns at the memory of his hand in Shiro’s, his name on his lips, and eyes with the prettiest lashes Keith’s ever noticed fixed on him like he’s something worth looking twice at.

He’s even better in person— less composed than he is in his videos, maybe, but better— and how the _fuck_ is that possible? Keith still can’t fathom the existence of a man so handsome, so wonderfully made, so charming and interesting and sweet-voiced.

And Keith met him. Knows him. Even has his number. It’s too much to contemplate while trying to replace an old timing belt that’s ready to give way any day now, and Keith goes through the motions of his work with a dreamy slowness that doesn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the garage.

“Keith,” Kolivan sighs as he takes him aside near closing time. “When I asked you to talk to the owner of the Volvo, I didn’t think it would render you essentially useless for the rest of the afternoon.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Keith promises. A quick glance down at his phone shows a text back from Shiro's number— a smiley face and a _Hey Keith!_ sent not long after they'd parted ways. “Let me work on the Volvo tomorrow. Please. I plan on staying late, even.”

Amber eyes narrow at him, his uncle’s stern brow furrowing even more than usual. “Why?”

Keith’s gaze slides sideways, avoiding Kolivan’s judgment. “So… so he can leave bright and early on Tuesday. Or head out overnight, if he wants. He said he's on vacation and I hate to think about him being stuck here with nothing to do.”

“_You_ somehow manage to find plenty to do,” Kolivan reminds him. But his expression softens, albeit by a measure that anyone unfamiliar with him would likely miss. “Fine. I’ll let Antok know. And Keith— don’t overwork yourself.”

Keith figures that if it’s for Shiro, he could probably work til midnight without a peep of complaint. It’d be worth it for his gratitude. For his happiness. And it’s still the least he can do, really, for all that Shiro’s done for him, even without his knowing it.

The ride home is blisteringly hot, the sun not yet set. Bent low over his bike, Keith hurtles across shimmering pavement and down their dusty drive. After parking under the lonesome tree in their front yard, he bounds up the stairs and rushes through the screen door, eager to be back in the cool embrace of the AC.

The smell of cooking rice and sizzling meat wafts through the house; nose in the air, Keith follows the delicious scent to the kitchen. Inside, his dad works a knife through a stack of green onions, chopping with swift purpose.

He looks up at the sound of Keith’s footsteps on the wooden floorboards, grinning as he welcomes him home. “Hey, kiddo. Dinner’ll be ready soon.”

Keith’s stomach gurgles in response, clearly not satisfied with the light lunch he’d had while sharing with Shiro. “Do I have time to shower?”

His dad flashes him a thumbs up, so Keith hurries upstairs. He strips down and leaps under the spray while it’s still cold, furiously scrubbing the day away. Sweat, dust, and engine grease disappear down the drain with the cinnamon-scented lather of his soap, leaving him pink-skinned and refreshed as he steps out.

Hungrier than he’s been all day, he hurries back down the stairs in sweatpants and a tank top, a towel looped around his shoulders to catch the water from his still-dripping hair. The smell from the kitchen is even more appetizing than fifteen minutes ago, and his mom must be home now, too, because he can hear her voice—

And someone else’s. A voice he'd know anywhere.

Keith feels a preemptive blush building as he peeks inside. Shiro and his mom are already sitting down at the table; his dad, still in his apron, is busily setting out dishes piled high with lettuce and rice and thinly sliced steak.

“Keith!” his dad chirps, immediately alerting everyone to his son’s skulking presence in the doorway. He grins toothily as he waves Keith into the kitchen-dining room. “Dinner's ready, come sit down. And look, your mother picked up a guest. Ain’t that something?”

“It sure is,” Keith mutters as he awkwardly discards his towel in the hallway, out of sight, and then slinks to the empty seat beside Shiro.

He's cleaned up too, by the looks of it. His comfy NASA shirt’s been traded for a touchably soft-looking button down with the sleeves rolled up; his damp hair smells faintly and sweetly of vanilla. The tops of Shiro’s cheeks are still a little pink from the earlier heat, but he’s fresh-faced and handsome as ever.

“I passed him as he was walking over to Vrepit Sal’s,” his mom says, her chin resting on laced fingers, “and I knew we could do him one better with a home-cooked meal by the best chef in town.”

Keith’s parents proceed to make flirty eyes at each other. Right there, in front of him and Shiro. Unashamed. His dad is still blushing under his tan as he sets out the last few dishes and then fishes another beer from the fridge for Keith.

“You never mentioned you were the sheriff’s son,” Shiro whispers as Keith settles in. His eyes twinkle as he takes a sip of his beer, though, more amused than anything else. And he still smiles at Keith like he’s something more special than a washed-up college drop-out in the middle of nowhere.

“I was hoping to keep it less awkward. For both of us.” Keith smoothes back his wet hair, suddenly acutely and terribly aware that his worn tank top has a number of holes around the collar and a tendency to ride up and bare his midriff. “And see how well it's worked out?”

Shiro laughs into his drink, looking pretty and rosy-cheeked. “Well. _I’m_ enjoying myself, at least,” he teases, gentle. He sobers slightly as he adds, “But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by being here,” under his breath.

“I’m not. I’m— I was just surprised to see you. I’d have chosen something slightly more formal if I’d known you were going to be here,” Keith says, thumbing at the fraying hem of his too-short tanktop and squirming in his faded sweats. It could’ve been worse, though: he’d almost opted for his sleeping shorts with the hippo print. “But I’m glad you at least get to see me un-greased and un-gross, after earlier.”

“You didn’t look _gross,”_ Shiro softly scoffs before throwing back another drink from his beer. And whether it’s the alcohol or his growing familiarity with the Kogane family, he seems more relaxed, even as his cheeks burn brighter.

“We don’t really much stand on formality around here, Shiro,” his dad says as he scoots his chair in to the table. He gestures to the table-crowding spread. “Help yourself, alright? And don’t be shy about getting seconds.”

As soon as Shiro is done filling his plate, it begins— a gentle grilling, both of Keith’s parents curious about who Shiro is and what he does, what brought him through town, and how he’s enjoying his unexpected stay.

Keith mostly stays quiet, piling rice and meat and peppery sauce onto lettuce leaves, rolling them tight, and shoving them into his mouth whole. But he listens attentively as Shiro describes his brief military service, his decision to go back to school,  
and the fledgling dental practice he runs with a friend from his dentistry program. Some of it Keith already knew, passively absorbing the scattered details of Shiro’s life from his videos. But some of it is brand new. Private. Shared not to his four-hundred thousand followers, but just to them.

He doesn’t mention the accident or offer any details on his gleaming prosthetic arm, and Keith’s parents don’t ask.

Not that Keith had expected any different. His dad has his own messy scars, reminders of the fire that had nearly killed him when Keith was only eight, and he doesn’t like talking on it, either.

It’s not an embarrassingly bad dinner, to Keith’s mild shock. Shiro seems to enjoy the food, the drinks, the company. And Keith’s happy to see him happy— happier than he would’ve been with Vrepit Sal’s meatloaf and the spotty TV in his motel room, certainly.

“Thank you all for having me for dinner,” Shiro says once their plates sit clean, the meal winding down to a close. His hands fold in his lap, and only Keith can see the nervous rub of his fingers. “It was delicious, Tex. Especially the steak. I’d love that recipe before I go.”

His dad glows, transparently flattered. “Well, we’re not done yet. I was going to make a pie,” he sighs as he gets up and pulls a tub of ice cream from the freezer, “but this’ll have to do. You like butter pecan, Shiro?”

“Uh, yes. Butter pecan’s great.”

“Then let’s get you boys a couple scoops,” his dad murmurs, spooning ice cream into four separate mugs. With a roguish little smile, he passes Keith and Shiro theirs first. “It’s cooled off pretty well outside. You two might, uh, wanna go eat on the porch.”

It’s a hint. A fully intentional nudge, judging by the way Krolia mirrors her husband’s smile. When Tex thinks no one is looking, he winks back at her.

It’s mortifying, even if Keith’s in love with the idea. Fortunately, Shiro— apparently very excited to have ice cream— doesn’t notice the obvious steering at work and happily follows Keith outside.

It is pleasantly cool, now that the sun’s finally set and the stars have begun to come out. A breeze blows steady across the surrounding flats, rustling through nearby bushes and the lonesome tree, its tire swing slowly turning.

“I’m… so sorry. About them,” Keith says as soon as the door is shut. He gestures for Shiro to sit down on the porch swing first, trying to be polite, and then settles down beside him with his ice cream mug in his lap.

“No, no,” Shiro counters in between bites, getting comfortable on the bench swing. “You don’t have to apologize, Keith. It’s been… kind of amazing, really. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so welcomed so quickly. I— I’ve had a really good day, actually. Thanks to you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Shiro takes another bite of his ice cream and looks out at the horizon. It’s a cloudless, crescent moon night, the Milky Way streaking across the sky above them in rich bands of shimmering starlight.

Shiro sighs, almost inaudibly. “Wow. You don’t see the stars like this in the city.”

“Nope,” Keith agrees. “It’s one of the things I like best out here.”

The butter pecan disappears spoonful by spoonful, the both of them lapsing into a comfortable silence as they eat. As much as Keith loves Shiro’s voice, he’s glad for this, too— quietly enjoying the gentle sway of the swing, the beautiful sprawl of the sky, and the nearness of Shiro’s presence. With Shiro by him, Keith is nearly content enough to fall asleep here and now, swinging slowly back and forth under the sight of the stars.

He breaks the silence first. “Can I ask you something, Shiro?”

“Yeah. Anything,” Shiro says, turning to him with a soft, tentative smile.

Keith draws his legs up onto the swing, arms looped tight around them. “How did you get into ASMR stuff in the first place?”

“Oh, that?” Shiro laughs, a little taken aback. “I first stumbled onto ASMR while I was, uh, going through some stuff. After this happened,” Shiro says, tapping his metal fist against the swing's wooden slats. “I had a hard time sleeping, so I’d stay up and— well, I just stayed up,” he shrugs. “A lot.”

Keith can sympathize with nights spent tossing, turning, staring at the walls and ceiling for hours on end, worn down by perpetual tiredness. But his frown is more for what Shiro’d gone through to wind up in such a weary place, his stare lingering on the slow flex of Shiro’s prosthetic hand. “Yeah. I’m familiar with that feeling.”

Shiro gives him a smile, then sighs. “I don’t know which was worse, honestly— the nightmares or the insomnia. And I _hated_ the sleeping meds they prescribed me. Made me feel like shit, fucked with my memory… but I didn’t really know what else to do?” He runs his metal hand down his face. “Anyway, I started out watching videos of people getting massages— not like, in a creepy way, just... to feel it vicariously? At the time, taking off my shirt around anyone else was out of the question. But watching… I could watch.”

Keith’s eyes only flit down to the scar that bridges Shiro’s nose, but his thoughts travel further, to the scarring that peeks from under Shiro’s shirts when he does his videos, ringing one bicep and stretching up across his collarbone, ever the cause of questioning remarks in the comment section.

“It helped me relax before bed. During the day sometimes, too, if I was extra stressed. Which was most of dental school, if I’m honest,” Shiro says, smiling in a way that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I could unwind a little. Get out of my own head. It’s, uh… kind of silly, I guess,” Shiro hedges, looking out at the stars, half his face masked in shadow. When he does look at Keith, it’s sidelong and sheepish. Self-conscious, maybe. “Haircut roleplay videos helping with my PTSD and all.”

“It’s not,” Keith says, thinking of the little ways his father had changed after the fire that nearly killed him, and the hobbies— like cooking— he’d picked up to help occupy his hands and mind. “It really isn’t, Shiro. And I’m glad you found something that helped.”

"Me, too. Thanks, Keith." For a few moments, Shiro doesn’t say anything else. He toys with his spoon and stares down into his empty mug, brow creased with thought, before glancing up at Keith again. “So, what about you? How’d you find my videos?”

“Started with knives, then knife massages, then massage videos,” Keith says, pointing to Shiro— who grins along, pleased they had a common link in their respective youtube journeys. “Got kinda halfway into the ASMR ones. Didn’t really get it until I saw you. Roleplaying.”

“_Me?_ Really?” Shiro almost preens. But his beaming smile falters as some new concern apparently crosses through his mind. “Wait, which one did you watch first?”

“Uh, a pretty old one. One of the first ones. A dental check-up or cleaning, I think.”

“Oh no,” Shiro groans, leaning back in the swing. “I was so nervous when I first started out. I had to edit out so many fuck ups and it definitely shows. Ugh, so choppy.”

“I still liked it. So much so that I subscribed and went through everything else you made,” Keith points out. "Voraciously."

The admission makes Shiro's nose wrinkle as he laughs, eyes squeezed tight, arms held straight beside him as he grips the edge of the porch swing's seat.

Keith finds it charming, like he does everything else about him. “What made you decide to start making your own videos?”

“Well, they helped me so much that I wanted to do the same thing for other people, I guess. Even just one person.” Shiro shrugs his wide shoulders. “And I had an actual, authentic set for doing dentist stuff, so… kind of a waste not to use it, right?”

“Yeah," Keith laughs, soft as a hum. “It definitely gave you points for presentation.”

There's a soft, silent lapse between them before Shiro quietly asks, “So, have you, uh… ever thought about doing it? Making your own ASMR stuff, I mean. You have a really good voice for it.”

It’s Keith’s turn to let out a taken aback, _“Me?”_

His shoulders slump as Shiro smiles and nods, apparently really meaning it. “Why would I? My voice isn’t… it’s nothing special, Shiro. And I have enough trouble interacting with people in person,” he snorts. “Nevermind online.”

“Your voice is nice,” Shiro almost stubbornly insists, a determined set to his jaw. “Distinct. Almost… smoky? It’s so— I’d listen to you read a phonebook, Keith. Or anything. And I’d watch you,” Shiro audibly swallows here, “do anything, too.”

Keith doesn’t know what there is to say to that; he almost fears that if he opens his mouth, an incoherent mess will spill out instead. So he blinks at Shiro and draws in a deep breath through his nose, his sweaty-palmed hands curling into the fabric of his faded grey sweats.

“Shit. Shit, I’m so sorry,” Shiro says, suddenly crestfallen. He gathers up his mug and makes to stand. “That was… off the charts weird and inappropriate, huh? I’ll just, um, start walking,” he breathes, hiking a thumb over his shoulder in the distant direction of town.

“No,” Keith peeps out, hooking his fingers in the rolled cuff of Shiro’s sleeve. His voice feels crackly and dry as tumbleweed, and for the life of him, Keith can’t imagine what Shiro likes about it. “It wasn’t, Shiro. Stay. Please.”

Shiro lets himself be tugged back down to the swing, rocking them back and forth as his weight settles again. “I did mean it,” he whispers after a few seconds slip by. “If you recorded yourself talking through a repair or something, I’d listen to it on repeat ad infinitum.”

Keith shifts in place, nervously folding his legs under him. Everything Shiro’s said feeds a tingly, fluttery feeling in his belly— the thought of him watching and listening late into the night, falling asleep to Keith the same way he’s so often done to Shiro. “But… why?”

The look Shiro gives him is borderline pained, mouth closing and thinning to a wearied line. “Why?” he echoes back, the faintest lines of confusion forming along his brows.

“You’re _you,”_ Keith tries to explain, gesturing helplessly to all of Shiro. “That’s why almost half a million people want to watch you. I’m… just me, though.”

Shiro rubs his hands up his cheeks, close to burying his face against his palms. “Keith, I’ve known you for all of a day and I can already see you’re amazing. Just talking to you makes me feel better. About everything. And you look, um, very nice, too. And your voice, uh…” Shiro steeples his hands in front of his mouth, staring out into the nighttime expanse rather than meeting Keith’s curious stare. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Keith, but the timbre of your voice is… cool. And hot. At the same time.”

“Cool,” Keith repeats, the corner of his mouth daring to curl into a smile, “_and_ hot?”

It's just barely teasing, the way it comes out. Keith's breaths quicken in his chest, heart too loud in the silence of the lonely night spread around them.

Shiro tips his head back and lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes. I’m usually better at choosing words and stringing them together, I promise. I am.” He lolls his head to the side, finally looking at Keith head-on again. “But today’s just been… it’s like...”

Shiro trails off, eyes sparkling in the faint starlight, the tip of his tongue darting out to leave a wet trail along his full bottom lip. Distracted. Keith stares back, itching to smile even broader.

Abruptly, Shiro blinks, his full lashes fluttering, and lets out a weak laugh. “See? I did it again,” he murmurs, the deepening of his blush visible even in the dark. He shoots a meaningful look over at Keith, but only briefly. “Lost my train of thought. Seems like you have that effect on me.”

Hearing those words on Shiro’s lips is surreal. Shiro— the man Keith’s admired from afar for months and quietly, hopelessly pining for him in his own distant way. The handful of inches currently separating them now seem either much too close or nowhere near far enough.

“Same. You on me, I mean,” Keith whispers.

The weak, yellowed bulb on the porch flickers off and on a few times, causing them both to glance up. A moment later, Keith’s dad pushes the screen door open and sticks his out, clearing his throat. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Keith burns up to his ears with a full-body blush, stiff as he sits up straight. Over Shiro’s shoulder, he glares indignant daggers at his father; meanwhile, Shiro stumbles over himself to reassure Tex that they were just chatting.

His dad holds up a hand, trying to pacify both of them. “Just wanted to let y’all know it’s getting late. If you want a lift back to the motel, Shiro, it’ll have to be soon. Krolia and I are about ready to turn in,” he says, stifling a yawn behind the back of his hand.

“I can do it. I’ll take him,” Keith immediately offers, nodding as he looks from his dad to Shiro. “I’ll drive you there.”

“Okay!” Shiro agrees just as quickly. “I mean, I did really want to check out your Suzuki. What better way than riding it?”

In the doorway, his dad pulls a face and gives them both a nod. “Alright, but you two oughta leave soon so you’re not out on the roads too late. And hurry back, Keith. We’ll wait up for you, alright?”

As Keith slips inside to grab his jacket, his keys, and two helmets— his own and his mom’s, borrowing it— his dad leans in and whispers close to his ear.

“Or, y’know, just send a text and let us know if…” Tex hems and haws for a moment. “If you’re gonna… _be busy_… so we know not to expect—”

“Dad,” Keith pleads as he tucks his wallet into the pocket of his leather jacket, dragging out the word. He shuffles in place, flustered at the mere thought of winding up _busy_ with Shiro, and hisses, “I’ll let you know. Okay?”

“Okay, okay,” his dad says, drawing him in for a hug and rocking him side to side, reluctant to let go. “Just be careful. Text us if you need anything, or if anything happens. We won’t go to bed til we hear something from you either way.”

His mom appears and crowds into the doorway as well, still toweling her wet hair. With a little smile, she leans down and kisses Keith squarely on the forehead. “I trust you’ll make good decisions,” she tells him, a hand cupping along his cheek.

They both smile as Shiro nervously approaches and thanks them for their hospitality, murmuring goodnights as they shake hands.

“Hold on tight, Shiro,” is Krolia’s last piece of advice as the door is closing shut. “Keith thinks he’s sneaky, but I’ve seen how he rides that thing...”

“You some kind of speed demon?” Shiro teases as they tread across the sparse grasses to the old oak in the front yard, where Keith left his bike.

Keith only gives him a look, an eyebrow arched, and lifts a shoulder. “Guess you’re about to find out, huh?”

Shiro grins ear-to-ear. “Thanks for offering to take me,” he tells Keith while circling around the cherry red Suzuki. “I’m grateful to your mom for all the rides, but sitting in the back of a cop car makes me feel like a teenager again. Not in a good way, either.”

The little glimpse deeper into Shiro’s past is a welcome surprise. “You end up in the back of cop cars often, Shiro?”

“Just twice,” Shiro sighs. “Dumb shit, don’t ask.” But only a moment later, he adds, “Got caught trying to buy beer with a fake ID when I was sixteen. Later, I got brought in after I punched a guy who was harassing a friend of mine.”

Keith respects that. “Doesn’t sound dumb to me. Well, maybe the beer,” he quickly amends.

“It was,” Shiro acknowledges, laughing to himself. “You should’ve seen the ID I was trying to use. Not even remotely a match for me, especially when I was a noodly beanstalk of a teenager.”

Before tugging on his helmet, Keith looks Shiro up and down— slowly, lingering on the ample fill of his chest and broad shoulders he’d kill to sling his arms over. “Hard to imagine you were ever a noodle.”

Shiro merely hums, tongue prodding along the inside of one cheek, looking none too perturbed about Keith openly checking him out. He fits on his helmet and flips up the dark tinted visor; his eyes crinkle at the corners, giving away his smile.

Keith slips astride the bike and plants his feet on either side while Shiro takes a seat behind him. His bike’s smaller than Shiro’s Hayabusa, and two people is a lean fit, but… Keith’s not exactly complaining. He flexes his hands around the handlebar grips as Shiro’s hips settle against him, followed by the brush of warm, denim-clad thighs. But it’s nothing compared to the feel of strong arms around him and a broad chest pressed flush against his back, warm through his leather jacket.

With Shiro tucked close, Keith takes off down the darkened road toward town.

Shiro’s a natural passenger— no surprise there. Keith’s never ridden doubled up like this, but he can feel Shiro’s trust as he relaxes around him on straightaways and leans expertly into every turn. A thrill courses through him at the touch of large hands clutching tight to him as they streak through the darkness, wind pleasantly cool as it whips past. Shiro is solid warmth at his back, nearly folded over him as they both lean low on the small, sleek sport bike.

They’re almost alone on the road at this hour, most of the small town already turned in for the night. For a little while, Keith feels as though he has Shiro all to himself— the world around them dim and quiet, empty, and just the two of them piled close as they navigate it.

Disappointment leadens his whole body as they pull into the empty parking lot of the Super 8, those perfect arms already unwinding around him. Shiro points to one of the rooms on the ground floor, not far from the check-in lobby, and Keith parks in the space squarely in front of it.

The hands lingering on either side of Keith’s hips finally let go and Keith misses them with an instantaneous ache. He wants to feel Shiro’s palms gliding up his waist, under his jacket, skin and metal dragging on his bare flesh. He wants to be yanked close, hips kept flush with Shiro’s, held in ways he never has been before. He wants— no, _needs_ to have Shiro’s face buried in his hair, his breath in his ear, his silky voice purring over his skin.

But the sliver of space between them grows as Shiro straightens up and leans back. Keith takes a deep breath to cool the simmering in his veins. They only just met today, and even if he’s grown familiar with Shiro over whole seasons, Shiro’s known him for all of ten hours.

Keith cuts the engine and tugs off his helmet, shaking out his hair. He twists at the waist, looking over his shoulder, and finds Shiro smiling at him. Fluffy tufts of short-cropped white and black jut at awkward angles, cutely ruffled by the removal of his own helmet.

“You race?” Shiro asks, still breathless as he dismounts, beautiful even under the flickering neon of the motel sign.

“When there are people around for me to race, yeah,” Keith says. And when his mom isn’t out on patrol, ready to bust him in the act.

“You ride like it,” Shiro comments, and that same flicker of approval is there in his eyes, the quality of his fine voice. “Smooth. Natural. I’d love to see you really open it up, tear down a quarter mile or so.”

“Maybe next time,” Keith smirks as he swings a long leg over his bike and drops the kickstand, only realizing afterward that there may not be another moment like this for him and Shiro. Not after he leaves, venturing far and away from the small range of Keith’s world.

“Next time,” Shiro agrees, though, lingering by the Suzuki with the helmet in his hands. He smiles sheepishly when it finally occurs to him to hand it back. “Thanks for the ride. Wish I had mine here so I could take you for a spin, too.”

Keith warms at the thought of wrapping himself around Shiro and feeling the rumble of a big Hayabusa under him. “Mm. I’d like that. Wouldn’t mind racing you, either.”

“As long as you don’t mind losing.” Shiro grins, taking slow, swaggering steps toward the door of his motel room.

“I don’t mind losing,” Keith replies, all innocence as he drifts after Shiro, his hands jammed deep into his jacket’s pockets, “so long as you’re the one doing it.”

For the first time, Keith hears Shiro snort while he laughs. It’s ugly and adorable, his perfect smile quickly covered by a metal hand, and Keith knows he’s got it bad when that sound alone has his heart doing backflips.

“It’s late,” Shiro sighs as he leans against the frame of the locked door. And he does look tired, despite his smile. Keith imagines he must’ve set out on the road painfully early this morning, hoping to make good time to his rental on the beach.

“Yeah,” Keith says, toying with the keys sitting in his pocket, not ready to say goodbye. “I had a good time with you today, Shiro. Kinda… the best time, actually. I feel like I could keep talking to you for hours.”

And hours and hours. Which is saying a lot, considering Keith’s most defining attribute on years’ worth of report cards— next to his easy frustration and short temper— had been his reservations when it came to casual conversation. But talking to Shiro doesn’t feel tricky or tiresome. His questions never feel like traps laid to make him stumble; there’s no silent, pitying judgment when he does. At worst, it’s awkward, and that’s only because Keith likes him so damn much. At best, it’s life-changing.

“But I bet you get that a lot,” Keith adds, drawing his shoulders up tight, nervous. Shiro is charming, captivating, and just as encouragingly sweet as in the videos that hundreds of thousands of other people appreciate, too. And Keith is... himself.

“Not really, no,” Shiro says, his eyebrows lifting even as his voice drops low, flat. He smiles after, but it’s thin and a little uncertain. “I don’t really meet many people, I mean. Outside of new patients at work. I kind of stopped trying to, I guess, after…”

The ‘after’ is obvious, even without Shiro rolling his metal wrist in a slow, thoughtful circle. He sighs and shakes his head, as if casting out that thought, and then shortens the gap between himself and Keith by a step.

“But I’m glad I met you, Keith. Really glad,” he murmurs, swallowing hard enough that Keith can see the flex all the way down the pretty column of his throat. “Never thought I’d feel lucky for having my car break down on the side of the road, but here I am.”

“Same. It’s too bad about your car,” Keith says, sympathetic for the trouble and the not-insignificant cost of it, “but I’d be lying if I said I that seeing you in person wasn’t a little bit of a dream come true.”

A dream he’d never given any length of serious thought, sure, but a formless desire to see and hear and feel Shiro up close, a yearning for touch usually felt as he drifted off while Shiro’s channel played for him. Keith wonders if it was a little much to admit, though…

Shiro stares at him like there’s something he’ll miss if he blinks, absently flipping the card key to the room between his fingers while he worries his bottom lip. Nighttime deepens the color of his eyes to a near-black, almost as dark as the heavy cast of lashes that frame them.

They’re close enough to touch, if either of them were to reach out. And Keith wants to, hungrier and needier than he’s ever felt for anyone. The ache for Shiro has him swaying forward on the balls of his feet, wishing he could throw himself headlong into those perfect pecs and squeeze appreciatively at thighs twice as thick as his own. He wants to hold Shiro to him, their fronts meshed tight together, and let his touch rove up the broad expanse of his back. He’s spent scattered hours imagining Shiro’s hands on him, but now Keith wonders more about feeling Shiro’s flexing muscle under his palms, of tracing the shape of Shiro through his jeans, of sucking telltale marks into his skin.

Keith keeps his hands jammed firmly into his jacket pockets, where they can’t get him into trouble. But he can’t hide the red on his cheeks, nor the heaviness of his breathing, all keyed up like he’s squaring off for a brawl.

“I— I don’t mean to keep you,” Shiro says after a length of silence that weighs heavy on the both of them. There’s a tightness around his jaw as he says, “I know you have to work tomorrow, and your boss seems a little…”

“Uptight? Yeah, that’s kind of his thing.” Keith shrugs off the needling twinge of disappointment as he feels the conversation sliding to a close. It’s for the best, he reasons. It’s not like he could act on his roiling thoughts about Shiro, anyway— not tonight, not like this.

Maybe not ever.

It’s not like he’d even know what to do once he got his hands on Shiro, honestly. He’d freeze, most likely. And embarrass himself, no doubt. Keith’s sexual experience amounts to a couple of fumbling handjobs during his semester-and-a-half of college, after all,  
and surely Shiro deserves a little more finesse than Keith enthusiastically throwing himself at him, guided by nothing but intense adoration and lust and the burning desire to earn Shiro’s well-pleased praise.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Shiro asks, sounding hopeful, his metal hand rubbing up and down his left forearm— trying to quell goosebumps, it looks like, even though the night is only barely cool, summer-mild.

“Later today, technically,” Keith corrects, voice fraying around the edges. He smiles as Shiro whips out his phone to check the hour, swearing low at the time that’s slipped by.

“Text me if you need anything, Shiro. I mean it. And I’ll let you know as soon as the work’s done.”

“Thanks, Keith. For everything.”

Keith glaces down and finds an aluminum-and-polymer hand reached out to him.  
He’s admired Shiro’s prosthetic for a long time, if only with a mechanic’s eye and an appreciation for how effortlessly Shiro uses it. But under the moonlight and neon yellow glow of the motel sign, Keith decides it’s beautiful, too. A part of Shiro, like all the rest, and just as fine. His hand fits small within Shiro’s, clasped within reinforced fingers both inhumanly strong and surprisingly delicate. Textured fingerpads brush over his knuckles, soothing even as the sensation raises hair along Keith’s nape.

It’s just a handshake, like the one from this morning. Or it was supposed to be, Keith thinks. But it went wrong somewhere along the way, neither of them letting go at the right time. Instead, they stand in front of Shiro’s motel room, staring at each other and holding hands.

Keith tries to be cool about it, but mostly he’s grateful that Shiro can’t feel the clammy sweat dampening his palm through the aluminum plating of his prosthetic. How many nights has he imagined this very hand wrapped around him, gentle and unrelenting?  
And now Keith can feel every delicate seam and joint, all the unseen strength in those manufactured tendons and sturdy, surprisingly dextrous fingers.

“Goodnight. Keith,” Shiro says at last, more a whisper than anything else. He gives Keith’s hand a tender squeeze before finally uncurling his fingers and pulling away.

A little spark runs up Keith’s spine at the sensation of Shiro’s fingers slipping over his, agonizingly slow, holding the thread of contact until the very last moment possible. And every inch of him protests afterward as he takes a blind step backward, toward his bike.  
“Night, Shiro.”

Shiro lingers in the frame of the open door to his darkened motel room, watching while Keith mounts his bike and slips the sleek helmet over his head. He gives a short wave, two metal fingers held up straight; Keith answers it with a playful little salute.

And then Keith is gone with a peal of tire on pavement and the revv of the engine, his bike's headlight cutting a path through the dark as he races against the sinking feeling in his gut and the clocking ticking steadily down to the moment Shiro leaves him behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please mind the rating change for this chapter!

When his alarm blares at six the next morning, Keith feels those extra hours of lost sleep like weights tethering him to the mattress, his body begging for another twenty or thirty minutes of slumber. He can’t regret what he did to cause himself such a late night, though.

Not taking Shiro home. Not getting to ride with him, to talk to him, to milk another few memories out of his remaining time here. But part of Keith— a small part, though increasingly difficult to ignore— pines for what he _ didn’t _ do.

Rationally, he’s grateful that he didn’t listen to his gut and fall face-first into Shiro’s chest, tempting as the thought is. Less rationally— and Keith chalks this up to his thirsty hindbrain— he finds himself wistfully disappointed for letting the golden opportunity slip by. He rolls over to check his phone and finds multiple texts from Shiro, all of them timestamped maybe an hour after Keith left the motel, raced home, and flopped facedown into his bed with a protracted groan, consumed by horny agony.

**Shiro, 12:47am:** Sorry if I made things weird. My brain’s been shorting out today. I swear, I’m usually more functional and less… that.

Keith can relate.

**Shiro, 12:56am:** I hope you have a good night! 😴💤💤💤

And the last text comes with a blurry picture of a large scorpion lurking in the corner of Shiro’s motel bathroom.

**Shiro, 1:04am:** Found another guest staying in my room???

Poor Shiro. Keith smiles soft, dragging the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip as he stares at the screen. He types hack one-handed as he brushes his teeth and tugs on clean clothes.

**Keith, 6:38am:** slept like a baby zzz

**Keith, 6:40am:** and no worries. i’ve been the same lately. also, i probably should’ve warned you about the scorpions around here... keep an eye on the ceiling too 🦂👀

His parents don’t ask much at breakfast, but they’ve always been experts at reading his moods. Keith hugs them both goodbye before he rides off to work, determination steeling his hands on the grips and giving him sharp purpose as he strides into the auto garage.

He knocks out two other jobs while he waits on the new gasket head, but his impatience and agitation build by the minute, his temper simmering same as the heat within the garage. It only breaks when the delivery truck rolls up outside— early, too, in a stroke of luck that has Keith almost bouncing— as he bolts back into the garage with a package tucked under his arm.

Everything else falls by the wayside afterward, nothing more important than taking good care of Shiro’s car— and Shiro, by extension, giving him back the reins to the vacation he’d worked so hard for. And speaking of giving things to Shiro, Keith decides to do one thing differently today. 

As he fishes his phone out of his pocket, he finds a reply from Shiro waiting on the screen.

**Shiro, 9:12am:** 😥 They can scale the walls?? The ceiling!? 😱

**Keith, 11:27am:** yup. working on your car now, btw

With care, Keith props his phone up on a toolbox, aims it toward the Volvo, and taps the record button. He’s self-conscious as he leans over the engine, afraid of embarrassing himself; Shiro’s visible nerves in his early videos come to mind and Keith admires him even more for putting himself out there in the first place. As he unboxes the new part and starts removing the broken one, Keith imagines he’s talking directly to Shiro as he walks through every step. He keeps his voice sunken low and whispery, though it’s less for the ASMR appeal and more to try and avoid the rest of the garage overhearing him.

Not that it works...

Eventually, Regris and Antok drift over, curious. Their hovering only makes Keith more flustered, and he has to pause the recording once they finally start poking in close and asking questions. He steadfastly refuses to explain anything— too much to unravel and explain, from the ASMR itself to its relevance to Shiro to why Keith would be creating it for him— despite their pestering. While his uncle grumbles and stalks off to find Kolivan, Regris brightly offers to help. 

Keith waffles for a minute before handing his phone over to his cousin-slash-coworker and giving him the vaguest instructions he can think of. Regris, to his credit, goes along with it with nothing more than an amused lift of his eyebrows, recording close-up on Keith’s hands as he digs through the Volvo’s engine, his slender fingers striped with dark grease. 

It feels good, working on Shiro’s car. Satisfying, even. If Keith had the time, he’d pore over every gear and bolt to make sure it was in peak condition; he’d go above and beyond, taking care of every imaginable detail. But as it is, he’s on a tight turnaround. Unwaveringly focused on the task at hand, he even forgets Regris and the camera for a while, falling into silence while his hands keep moving with practiced purpose.

He’s only jarred back to the present when Regris whispers that the phone’s nearly dead and darts away to plug it into an outlet. Keith works alone for the last hour, trying not to think of the minutes slipping by, the sun sinking lower, and Shiro stuck in the motel another night. To his own surprise— and Kolivan’s as well— he manages to finish the repairs just a few minutes before closing time, after everyone else has cleaned up their stations and left for home but before Kolivan’s started locking up the shop and its attached junkyard.

“Maybe I should keep a camera on you every day,” his uncle muses as he checks over Keith’s work, visibly pleased with the results. It shows in the tiniest upturn at the corner of his mouth, which quickly gives way to a musing frown. “What were you recording for?”

“Personal use,” Keith says, throwing aside the rag he’d wiped his hands on and grabbing his phone from the table where Regris had laid it while it charged. He slips it into his pocket and then gently lowers the hood of Shiro’s car, taking care to wipe away every fingerprint and smudge he’d left behind.

Kolivan squints at him, lips pursing slightly through his frown. “I’ll ask your mother if she can stop by the motel and pick him up. If we’re doing this tonight, I’d like it wrapped up ASAP,” he says, brusquely checking the watch Antok gave him five anniversaries ago. “I have some bills and filing to take care of. Please give Mr. Shirogane a heads up and start finalizing the paperwork,” his uncle says, patting Keith on the shoulder. “You did well today, Keith. Very efficient, despite the spectacle. I appreciate your motivation.”

Keith shoots Shiro a text as he walks to the front lobby, warning him of Krolia’s imminent arrival. Then he lets out a deep sigh, feeling especially sweaty and greasy and weary, even if he’s a little proud of his handiwork. And under the sense of accomplishment for having managed the repairs in record time, Shiro as the inspiration guiding his hands, Keith feels a foreboding, impending sense of loss.

It’s a ridiculous thing to feel at all, he knows. Shiro owes him nothing and Keith has no claim to him or his time. They were never even meant to meet, really, and he’s lucky to have crossed paths with him for even a day.

While he waits in the cool, dimmed lobby, Keith stretches his upper body across the service counter, forehead resting on cool formica. His eyes close and he ignores the little twinge of pain in his lower back, the stickiness of his skin, the dull buzz of his phone. 

His life here is good. Complete. Keith has a family that loves and understands him, a job he enjoys, empty stretches of road to speed down, and all the rugged beauty he could ever want to explore. And he’s never found it lacking, before now. Not in any way he could put a name to. Maybe he’ll see Shiro again on his way back through town, after his vacation’s over. Maybe Shiro’ll even go out of his way to stop here. Maybe by then Keith will have the guts to do something more about it and leave a better impression for Shiro to take home with him.

The bell above the door sounds out as someone enters— Shiro, alone— and Keith hurriedly straightens up and sweeps back his messy hair, fighting the loose strands curling haphazardly around his shoulders. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Shiro greets, holding up a hand. He looks more tired than when Keith last left him, but his clothes are clean and pressed and _ tight _, the pale fabric of his v-neck almost stretched sheer over his chest—

And Keith hurriedly glances down for the last forms that Shiro needs to sign before he can hand over the keys, repeatedly straightening the two sheets of paper just to occupy his sweaty hands. “Repairs went quick. Everything’s all taken care of.”

“Except the bill, right?” Shiro says, smiling as he pulls out his wallet and offers Keith a credit card, the plastic held between two sleek prosthetic fingers.

Their fingertips brush as Keith takes it.

“Except for that,” Keith softly laughs as he slides it through. The machine runs slow, piece of shit that it is, and in the long seconds of waiting for the receipt to print, he fidgets. “Oh! I, uh, made a thing for you.”

“A thing?” Shiro asks, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the counter, smiling with interest.

“You can’t— don’t laugh,” Keith warns, although there’s a warm bubble of emotion somewhere around his heart as he realizes that he trusts Shiro wouldn’t. Not in any kind of callous amusement, at least, and not for lack of understanding.

“I won’t laugh,” Shiro promises, his expression turning more serious as Keith lays his phone down in front of him. “What are you showing me here?”

“My first foray into ASMR,” Keith says, voice soft and blush bright. “For you.”

As he hits play, Keith belatedly realized he maybe ought to have screened the video first. Obviously, it’s nothing like the polished, professional ones that Shiro and other ASMRtists make, and there wasn’t any kind of editing happening while Regris filmed him, and…

It’s a goddamn mess. Keith buries his face in his hands and peeks through his fingers, too anxious to even glance over to gauge Shiro’s reaction. The ambient sounds of the garage— clanging, shouting, the occasional whir of power tools— are too loud to be at all relaxing, and his own voice is by turns grating and inaudible.

Keith mumbles an apology and reaches over, skipping ahead to the video where Regris took over in the hopes that the quality is a little better. The camera stays zoomed tight on his forearms and hands, but the picture’s shaky, the mic muffled by Regris’ hands as he shifts. His voice is easier to hear— for whatever that’s worth, as Keith still can’t figure out what Shiro sees in it— but the light is dim under the hood and the clanking sounds of auto repair are less than soothing. 

“I imagined it’d be better,” Keith murmurs, reaching over to stop the video before Shiro has to see any more. Recording it had been impulsive, and showing it to Shiro even more so.

“No, no, no,” Shiro quickly objects, waving Keith’s hand aside. He keeps watching, mouth curled up cutely at its corners. “I love it! This is great, Keith. I can’t believe you made this _ for me,” _ he repeats with relish, a choked little sound escaping after.

“Well, yeah.” Keith shrugs and slips his fingers into the dense tangle of hair at his nape, scratching nervously. It’s still damp from the long day in the sweltering garage, as are dark patches of his shirt all around his collar and down his back.

This close, the both of them leaned in, Shiro can’t possibly miss the sorry state he’s in. Keith stands acutely aware of the sweat still drying on his skin, the smell of engine and oil heavy on his clothes, the traces of grime inadvertently transferred from his knuckles to his cheeks.

“I, uh… didn’t have a chance to shower this time,” Keith murmurs by way of explanation, tone apologetic. It chafes that this is how Shiro will say goodbye to him— messy, sweaty, looking like he just blew into town after a daylong ride through the arid wilderness.

Grey eyes travel him, looking as far down as the counter between them will allow. He swallows. “Of course not. You must’ve been working nonstop all the way up til closing,” Shiro murmurs, a hint dry as he signs the receipt and forms that Keith lays in front of him. 

“That eager to get me out of town, huh?” Shiro asks as he slides the slip of paper back. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, almost joking, but the look in his eye isn’t amused— it’s quietly searching, the tiniest bit wary despite his smile.

“No. No, the opposite, Shiro. The last thing I want is to— to feel— look, you have a vacation to get to, don’t you?” He doesn’t mean it to come out sounding bitter, not even a little. He’s happy for Shiro. Wants to _ give _ him a reason to be happy, and this is the best way he can think how.

He just wishes he didn’t have to say goodbye to make it happen.

Keith starts filing everything away, closing up binders and straightening up the counter just the way his uncle likes, eager to keep his hands moving so the faint tremble in them doesn’t show. “Tidepools. The naval history museum. Dawn meditation, lunch on the beach, sunsets on the water,” Keith recites from the itinerary Shiro had recounted the night before, starry-eyed. He said he’d planned the trip six months ago, dying for some time off to unwind and recharge.

How could Keith do anything but help him get it? How could he ever stand in the way of the happiness Shiro deserves? It’s unthinkable, much as he might inwardly ache to keep him here. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m excited about it,” Shiro says, tapping the edge of his credit card against the counter once Keith hands it back, preoccupied even as he looks at Keith straight-on. “I just… I guess I’m not ready to leave so soon.”

Keith slides the keys to Shiro’s Volvo across the counter. “What, you’re gonna stay another night at the scorpion inn?” he asks, incredulous.

Shiro has a luxurious cabana on the beach waiting for him, already booked and paid for, and a functioning vehicle to get him there, now. Keith can hardly believe he’s still wasting time standing in the lobby of a car shop in a tiny speck of a town in the middle of inhospitable desert. 

Yet he is. With a metal finger looped through the keychain in his hand, nervously toying with it. “I mean… I could. I would.”

The heavy thumping in Keith’s chest threatens to drown out everything else. He blinks against the first touch of wetness along his lashes, frustration and hope and want bubbling up inside him too quick to be quashed. “Wh-why?”

“Why else, Keith?” Shiro asks, his shoulders drooping, expression turning a fond kind of hopeless as he sighs. His hands settle on the counter, curling in on themselves uncertainly. “Not for Vrepit Sal’s ‘adequate and affordable’ lunch menu or the gas station food or the shitty bed in my motel room, complete with scorpion roommates. Definitely not for the bustling nightlife,” he says, tone slipping sarcastic. “And not for your parents’ hospitality, either, although they are legitimately wonderful people.”

Shiro curls his bottom lip in between his teeth, pinching it lightly as his gaze cuts to and from Keith, like he’s skittish of looking at him too long. “It’s _ you, _ Keith. I just want to spend a little more time with you. If you’re okay with my hanging around, I mean.” 

“I am. Of course I am, Shiro, but… you can’t,” Keith protests, his voice stronger than he himself feels. He’s light on his feet, nearly dizzy with excitement at Shiro’s words. “You have so much waiting for you. I don’t want you to blow it off on my account.”

“The beach’ll always be there,” Shiro shrugs, unbothered. “But this… something about you is special, Keith. And I don’t want to rush you anything, but—”

“You won’t,” Keith interrupts, straining to hold himself back. “You aren’t.”

He’s riding high off the thrill that Shiro— the Shiro he’s been listening to and dreaming of for so long— likes him too, enough to toss aside all his finely laid plans and stay. And even as what few threads of patience Keith still has left urge him to slow himself, to wait, to remember that he and Shiro have known each other in the flesh for only a day, words spill out of him.

“I’ve already been wanting you for so long, Shiro,” he confesses, rising up on his tiptoes, itching to reach across the counter and grab him and not let go. “Since before I met you, even, and having you here like this?” He swallows and steels himself, heartened that Shiro hasn’t yet drawn away. “It’s so good, Shiro. So perfect. But I feel like I might combust if I don’t— if we don’t—“

Keith stumbles, cheeks hot as his tongue trips over what he’d like to ask of Shiro. Anything and everything, really. He meets Shiro’s gaze— that soft grey gone hard and heated— and tries again. 

“If you’d asked me last night, I’d have jumped right into your arms. I’d have stayed.” Keith licks his lips, nervous even as a sparking excitement builds in his chest, propelling him forward the same way open road beckons him to let loose. “And if you asked me right now, Shiro, I’d still do it in a heartbeat.” 

For a moment, Shiro just stares— his dark eyes opened wide, lips parted just a hair’s breadth, the soft heaving of his chest an enjoyable distraction. And then he looks down and considers the four-foot tall counter separating them, his broad hands splayed out over the aged formica. When Shiro glances back up, it’s with a hazy, hungry look that sends a delighted shiver coursing down Keith’s spine. The next words rumble out of him, the deepest and huskiest Keith’s ever heard his voice. “C’mere, then.”

Keith leaps to do as told— literally, with zero shame or reservation. Rather than waste precious seconds circling around the counter, he vaults right over and settles himself atop it. Closer to eye-level with Shiro, he then scoots forward til he’s perched at the very edge. Which leaves him sitting squarely in front of Shiro, his bent legs hanging on either side of the other man’s slim hips, close enough for his inner thighs to nudge into him. Close enough to feel Shiro’s warm breath, to smell his nice after-shower scent, to admire his lashes up close.

Shiro’s expression breaks up into another smile, his eyes slipping shut as he laughs, head tilted to one side to bare a pretty stretch of neck that Keith desperately wants to leave reddened and marked.

But he waits, thirsting like a man who’s crossed the desert kneeling before a spring. 

“You’re just one surprise after another, huh?” Shiro comments, one of his hands settling light on Keith’s knee, testing. He studies Keith’s expression as he inches higher, palming over the stained denim and the taut muscle underneath it. 

Keith approves. Greatly. And he does his best to show it, laying a slender hand over Shiro’s and guiding it inward, up along the inner seam of his jeans. He bites down into his lower lip as Shiro eases forward, pressing flush against the counter— and against Keith, the lean, muscled column of his waist fitted right between the welcoming spread of Keith’s thighs. They tremble around him, more excited than nervous. 

Shiro hums, the note a touch graveled, radiating all kinds of pleasure at Keith accepting him so near.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about you, too. Hardly got a minute of sleep last night,” he says, his smile bordering on mischievous as he leans in and to one side. “Not that the lumpy mattress helped, but—” he breathes out close to Keith’s ear, “—it was mostly you.”

“Fuck.” Keith’s fingers curl into Shiro’s shirt, the soft fabric pulling taut as he makes a fist; it exposes a slivered stretch of skin below its hem, interrupted only by a sparse trail of dark hair that disappears under the waistband of his jeans. “Shiro,” he whines, desperate. 

It’s overwhelming, having so much of him so close— heavy hands traveling over his hips, lips skimming along his cheekbone, broad shoulders and dark hair filling his frame of vision. Shiro’s voice slips over his goosepimpled skin, honey-smooth, and fills him with an ache just as sweet. Keith squeezes his legs tight around Shiro’s waist, holding him close; moaning out breathy and soft, he rocks his hips against Shiro’s front and slings sinewy arms around his neck, over the powerful slope of his shoulders, willing him even closer.

It’s the most natural thing in the world, turning his head to meet Shiro’s mouth with his own, chin lifting as they catch just right. Keith’s eyes flutter shut the moment his dry lips meet soft skin and the buttery sweetness of chapstick flavored like strawberry and lychee. He melts against Shiro, leaning everything into the embrace, trusting in the solid surety of Shiro’s body as he kisses back with a hunger that surprises even himself. But it’s achingly satisfying to indulge it after so long spent imagining and dancing around the possibility, tasting and feeling Shiro in all the ways he feared he’d never get the chance to. 

And as Keith twines himself around Shiro, Shiro clings back just as fierce. His hands rove down Keith’s sides and hook under his thighs, hoisting him a little higher, holding him tighter, nearly lifting him right off of the countertop. He groans into Keith’s mouth as slim hands slide up into his hair, nails dragging light over his scalp, a full-body shudder rolls though him; Keith feels it everywhere they’re pressed together, delighting in the sensation.

Keith could kiss him like this for hours— the tip of his nose pressed into Shiro’s handsome cheek as he angles to deepen it, his tongue striking deep in Shiro’s faintly minty mouth, a purring hum of contentment resting in the back of his throat.

He could and he would, nevermind that they’re still sitting out in the open of the auto shop’s lobby with everything unfolding too quick to be subtle, if not for the pressing need to catch his breath and give his overstimulated senses a brief respite.

But as Keith breaks the kiss and leans back, he notices a darkly distinct smudge along Shiro’s perfect, chiseled jaw. In mild horror, he glances down at his own hand and finds a thin line of engine grease along his inner pinky, overlooked as he’d wiped his hands clean. 

“I— hold on, I got something on you,” Keith says, pulling up the hem of his own shirt to wipe Shiro’s face clean. It’s only afterward that he realizes the sweat-soaked tee he’s been wearing all day is probably no better. “Shit, I’m sorry, that’s really disgusting—”

“It’s fine,” Shiro consoles, catching him by the wrist and pressing a quick kiss to the side of his hand. He certainly doesn’t seem to mind the peek under Keith’s lifted shirt, though, drinking in the sight of a flat belly lined in lean muscle and a dusting of dark hair. “I don’t care, Keith.” 

“You don’t care that I’m all grimy and sweaty? That I smell like the inside of an engine?” Keith asks, a reluctant grin taking hold as Shiro emphatically shakes his head and then surges back in for another mouthy kiss, undaunted.

“I think—” Shiro exhales as he pulls back barely an inch, his chest shuddering under Keith’s palm, “—that you look_ good _ like this. Mussed up from working hard all day,” he clarifies, color blooming along his cheeks, his lashes fanned as he drops his gaze. The tip of his tongue makes a quick pass over his plump bottom lip, wetting it anew. 

“But then you’ve probably never looked bad a day in your life, have you?” Shiro adds, laughing soft as he nuzzles close.

Keith snorts into his shoulder. Arguably, he actively looks a disaster _ right now, _ not that Shiro seems to agree in the slightest. 

“You’re one to talk,” Keith mumbles against Shiro, savoring the vanilla-y smell on his clothes and the comfort of having such strong arms looped around him. “Perfect smile, perfect face, perfect voice. And don’t even get me started on your shoulder-to-waist ratio.”

Shiro beams like the shining, cloudless day outside, metal fingertips brushing over his own kiss-swollen lips. “You think my smile’s perfect?”

“Like the rest of you, yeah,” Keith says, leaning forward to catch Shiro in another clinging chain of kisses.

He runs his tongue over fruit-sweet lips and straight teeth and into the comforting heat of Shiro’s mouth. Even better than hearing the sound of Shiro's voice is _ feeling _ it, through the little gasps and groans he makes as Keith palms down his chest and skims over his navel.

“That means a lot, coming from you,” Shiro breathes out before laying a kiss at the corner of Keith’s mouth, then one along his jaw, and then another lower still as Keith allows his head to tip back and his eyes to fall shut.

A nose presses into the tender underside of his throat as Shiro’s mouth moves against his salt-scented skin, no doubt leaving reddened marks behind. It’s the first time he’s ever been with someone so thoughtful and enthusiastic, so intentional in how he makes Keith squirm with kisses and slow, kneading touches along his hips. 

“From the moment I saw you, it’s been— it’s hard to believe it’s all real… that you’re not some fantasy,” Shiro says, almost bashful again as he lifts his head. “Like maybe I wandered too long out there in the heat and I’ve just been imagining you this whole time.”

His hands cup around Keith’s face, cradling him gentle, dark hair slipping under his fingers, looking on him in wonder.

“Nope, I’m very real,” Keith says, covering Shiro’s hands with his own and pressing his mismatched palms firmer against his cheeks. “See?”

“Mhmm,” Shiro hums behind a close-mouthed smile, stroking up along the heights of Keith’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “I’m awfully glad you are.”

Shiro’s next kiss is tender, almost chaste. His lips are light where they touch against Keith’s temple, hair brushed aside. But as much as Keith likes it— and the thought of snuggling close to Shiro, giving himself over to simple hair brushing and the peppering of soft kisses— he has more pressing things on his mind.

He clenches his thighs around Shiro’s middle and nudges his hips forward, reminding Shiro exactly how eager he is to make up for last night. “We could head back to your room,” he offers in a low whisper next to Shiro’s ear. “If there are any scorpions, I’ll kill them for you.”

“So romantic,” Shiro coos, grinning as he lifts Keith off the counter without even blinking. Lean legs hook tight around his waist in return.

A fluttering thrill slips through Keith’s belly at being held so easily in Shiro’s arms, feeding hungrier thoughts like kindling for wildfire: like how easy it would be for Shiro to hoist him against a wall and pin him there, bracing and bending and handling Keith _ just right. _

“Hey, so... it’s not the beach,” Keith says as Shiro carries him toward the door to the garage, where the Volvo still waits, “but we could lay in the backyard under the sprinkler, if you want. I’ll even make you a pina colada,” Keith adds, “but I can’t promise it’ll be any good.”

Shiro’s steps slow. He pauses just before the door, gently undoing the legs wrapped around his middle and setting Keith down. A steely hand pressed to the small of Keith’s back keeps him close, though; so close he’s practically stradling one of Shiro’s temptingly thick thighs. 

“Actually… I have something to ask you. But it’s a lot.” Shiro hesitates, his breath catching before he continues on, brows turning up in faint apprehension. “You can say no and that’ll be that, Keith. I’m just glad to be spending time with you, wherever it is that we’re together.” 

Keith stretches his arms up around Shiro’s shoulders and leans into him, pillowing his chin in the ample curve of Shiro’s chest as he blinks up at him. “Tell me, Shiro.”

Shiro’s expression blanks for a moment, something behind the vacant grey of his eyes briefly short-circuiting. But with a sudden inhale and a fluttering of dark lashes, he manages to squeak out, “Come with me. Down to the beach. Together. On vacation. Us.”

Caught off guard, Keith straightens up and leans back, gaping. It _ is _ a lot— on Shiro’s end, that is, to offer up such an invitation so freely.

Shiro’s metal hand slides against his, palm to palm, prosthetic fingers wiggling between Keith’s as he laces them together. “Please? Consider it?”

It’s Keith’s turn to be dumbfounded. Offering to stay behind for him is one thing; it’s another entirely for Shiro to take him with.

“The rental has three bedrooms,” Shiro blurts out, “and separate bathrooms, so don’t worry about... that. There’s no pressure. And everything I told you about— restaurants, sunsets, museums— we could do together. Or if there’s anything else you want to do...”

“Anything, huh?” Keith asks, a hand trailing thoughtfully down Shiro’s chest. 

“Anything,” Shiro repeats, his eyes bright, still eagerly trying to win Keith over to the idea. “Jetskiing, fishing, volleyball—”

_ “You,” _ Keith impatiently tacks on, making sure his priorities are known..

“Me,” Shiro agrees, the blush growing bolder under his skin. And bolder still as Keith stretches up on tiptoe to playfully lip at his ear. “So... is that a yes?” 

“Yes!” Yes, yes, _ of course _ it’s yes. Keith smiles against Shiro’s lips, eyes slipping shut as they kiss again, heady with the thought of journeying with Shiro to the coast, of getting to tread down beaches with him, watch the sunset over the waves, and kiss on moonlit shores.

But the muted snap of a closing three-ring binder has Keith’s eyes opened wide again, panicked. Kolivan had slipped his mind completely.

“Ah,” he chokes out, Shiro’s next kiss inadvertently landing low on his cheek as Keith abruptly turns his head aside. “Shiro, _ my uncle_.” 

There’s a rustle of sound from down the offshooting hall where Kolivan’s office sits— the blinds that hang over the door swaying as it opens, the soft contact of wood as the door shuts, the click of keys being worked into a lock. Keith makes quick, meaningful eye contact with Shiro and in an instant they’re two feet apart, desperately smoothing out their rucked up clothing and wiping away the slick shimmer of saliva on their skin. There’s nothing to be done about the blooming lovebites they both wear, though, and Keith inwardly grimaces as he hears his uncle’s sharp, deliberate footsteps approaching.

“Keith? I brought your father’s pie plate, so don’t forget to— oh.” Kolivan looks up from the papers in his left hand; his right hand, currently gripping said pie plate, slowly lowers to his side. Amber eyes study the both of them through his half-moon glasses. Finally, his lips purse. “I see.”

“Uncle—”

“Antok told me this would happen,” Kolivan sighs, slapping the stack of papers down onto the counter. He lays the pie plate on top of them afterward, paperweight-like. “And I flat out denied it. Do you have any idea how insufferable my husband is when he’s right?”

Keith… has some idea, after years of working for and alongside his uncles. He winces softly as Kolivan pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, the specific target of his irritation not yet clear. Keith’s gaze slips sideways to check on Shiro, who is the reddest Keith’s ever seen him, as stiff as a soldier at attention as Kolivan curls a hand under his chin and stares him down, stone-faced.

“Why don’t you go start the car, Shiro,” Keith says, offering him an escape from the uncomfortable situation. “Get the AC going.”

Shiro hesitates, a hand half-lifted toward Keith, but a sharp clearing of the throat from Kolivan encourages him to take his leave. With a nervous little dip of his head, he shuffles out. His metal hand skims over Keith’s shoulder as he passes, squeezing lightly in sympathy. 

“In my own lobby…” Kolivan murmurs as soon as the door shuts behind Shiro, _ tsking _ softly. He slips his glasses back on and looks around, as if expecting to see disorder and chaos in the wake of their makeout. “Keith, am I mistaken or did you two just meet yesterday morning?”

“No! Yes,” Keith backtracks, crossing his arms in frustration. “It’s… it’s complicated? He’s— I've seen him online before. Social media type stuff,” he halfway explains, knowing his uncle has little interest in such things, “so I’ve known about him longer than he’s known me.” 

Kolivan crosses burly arms and makes a silent little _ ah, _ but his expression remains stony and nigh unreadable.

“But I know that I like him,” Keith insists, his jaw firmly set. He inhales deep and sharp through his nose, steeling himself. “A lot, actually. And I’d— I wanted to ask for some time off to spend it with him. While I can. A week, maybe. Um, starting tomorrow," he adds, looking up at his uncle with the most imploring expression he can muster— the same one he’d always used as a kid, back when his uncle caught him taking apart his HAM radio or playing with his and Antok’s throwing knives. “Please?”

Kolivan sighs as he takes a step closer, his large, weathered hands settling around Keith’s shoulders. “I’ve never seen you so enthusiastic about someone, Keith. I’d almost doubted the day would ever come. And I’m pleased for you, even if,” a crooked finger nudges the underside of Keith’s chin, turning his head to better see the blooming hickies under his jaw and down his throat, “your sense of discretion leaves something to be desired.”

Keith's face heats under his uncle’s careful scrutiny. “...Are you going to tell my mom?”

“I hardly think I need to,” Kolivan mutters, a barely arched brow the only sign of his amusement. “Your state speaks for itself. And I _ do _ remember what it’s like to be young and enamored, contrary to what you might think. Why, when your uncle Antok was courting me, he was similarly prone to these, ah… _ territorial displays— _”

“Uncle,” Keith interrupts, pleading. There are a good dozen other places he'd rather be right now, all of them with Shiro and none involving his uncles' love life. “Please.”

Kolivan’s smile is faint, understanding, indulgent— a rare thing to see from him. “Very well. I won’t embarrass you any further. You can take however many days you need, within reason. Just keep me in the loop.” 

“R-really?” Keith asks, his triumph taking a backseat to his surprise.

“Keith, I can count on one hand all the times you’ve asked me for time off,” his uncle sighs, resting a hand atop Keith’s head in the same fashion he has since Keith was just a kid toddling after him. “I’m not enthused about the late notice, but you’ve more than earned a break.”

“Thank you!” Keith cries, throwing his arms around his uncle’s middle and squeezing until Kolivan lets out a winded little grunt. A warm palm pets over his hair, smoothing it into some semblance of order, affection in every stroke. “How you spend your time off is a discussion for you and your parents to have, perhaps…” Kolivan says, delicately. He spares his sister’s son a small smile. “And don’t forget the pie plate. Your father’s been sending me passive-aggressive texts about a— a—”

“Lemon meringue,” Keith helpfully supplies, carefully cradling the handmade pie plate to his chest as he backs toward the door. He flashes Kolivan a smile that he hopes conveys his gratitude, already making a mental note to find him the best souvenir possible. 

Keith chirps out an, “I love you!” over his shoulder as he slips outside, waving goodbye to Kolivan as he scurries to Shiro’s car, brimming with gleeful excitement. He pulls open the passenger door but hesitates before sliding in, eyeing the luxe, immaculately maintained leather interior. 

Shiro leans over and pats the passenger seat, welcoming. “You’re letting the cool air out.”

With a crooked grin, Keith ducks his head and darts inside. He wriggles into the seat as he buckles himself in, the pie plate resting in his lap, feeling special just for getting to ride shotgun in Shiro’s car. And it’s a _ nice _ car. As much as Keith loves his bike, he’s looking forward to spending hours by Shiro’s side as they drive, able to listen to his voice to his heart’s content. “Kolivan gave me the okay, so…”

“So?” Shiro swings the pitch up at the end, eyes bright and hopeful. 

“So this,” Keith says, gesturing to himself, Shiro and the car around them, “is happening. I just need to let my parents know,” he adds, blowing out a sigh that lifts the lock of hair hanging between his brows. Keith’s grin slowly grows wider, his mood soaring high like its caught in one of the warm thermals the hawks and vultures ride. The prospect of unfettered, uninterrupted days with Shiro has him almost restless. Just a little bit sly, he asks, “Feel like staying for dinner again?” 

Shiro hums as he slowly backs the car out of the garage and into the deepening twilight outside, the first stars speckling the sky above; the Volvo’s engine purrs along smoothly under the blast of the AC, and Keith can’t help but be a little proud. “For you? Absolutely.”

“I can’t say I’m going to love being scrutinized by your parents when they find out I’m about to whisk you away, though,” Shiro tacks on a few seconds later, sounding a touch more nervous this time around— and understandably so.

“Nah. They like you,” Keith assures him. And they _ do, _ which will hopefully go a long way in convincing his parents that their son skipping town with the nice man they only just met is not only a good idea, but a once in a lifetime chance he ought to hold onto with both hands. 

Shiro sends a shy glance sideways as he pulls out onto a near-empty road, quietly thanking Keith for getting his car running again. And for looking after him. For taking a chance with him. _ On _ him. For ditching work and tossing aside his usual routine, all to run away together.

“I hope I’m worth it,” Shiro laughs, breathy soft, his eyes like sun-warmed slate when he looks over at Keith.

Keith can practically feel the stars in his own eyes as he stares back, gaze lingering even after Shiro’s turned his attention back to the deserted road ahead. Shiro’s hand rests on the gearshift in between them; Keith lays his own atop it, thumb stroking gently over sleek metal and joints lined in dark, flexible polymers. 

“I know you are, Shiro,” he says, holding tighter. “I’m sure of it.”

* * *

If his parents are surprised to see Shiro darkening their doorstep for the second night in a row, they hide it well. 

His dad rejoices for being reunited with his pie plate and sets another place at the table without any fuss, clapping Shiro on the shoulder and asking him to help carry in the chicken from the grill. And all throughout dinner, his mom is almost smug as she observes the fruits of yesterday's spur-of-the-moment maneuvering to help Keith out with his crush.

While Keith helps his parents clean up and dry the dishes afterward, he lets them know about his impromptu vacation plans with Shiro, which are already set in stone as far as he’s concerned. Meanwhile, Shiro stews in the living room, per Keith’s suggestion, as he waits for their reaction. 

“Keith, don’t you think that’s moving a little fast?” Krolia asks, her stony expression almost as unreadable as Kolivan’s.

“You two barely know each other, son,” his dad adds, absently washing the same plate that’s been in his hands for two full minutes now. “And the coast is an awful long way to go with new company. What if y’all end up having a disagreement? What if something happens?”

“I’m old enough to look out for myself for a week,” Keith rebutts. A passionate speech builds inside of him, threatening to spill out in the form of disorganized rambling over how long he’s been watching Shiro, how wonderful he definitely is, and why going to the beach with him at the last minute is quite possibly the Best Idea he’s ever had. 

But Keith knows his parents’ blessing hinges on this moment, and though he doesn’t _ need _their okay to leave, he’d rather they be on the same page.

“I’ve never liked anyone like this, before him. You know that,” he says, low enough that he trusts his words won’t leave the kitchen. “And no one’s ever liked _ me _ this much, either. Even all grimy from work and awkward as hell, he _ likes _ me. And it could be love, if I don’t let this chance slip away in the night with him. I think I’d regret it all my life if I didn’t go.” 

If his words weren’t enough to sway his parents, then the slow roll of a single frustrated tear down his cheek clinches it. They clamor to comfort him, his dad hugging him close while his mom gently wipes the tear away and smushes his cheek. 

“And didn’t you two elope after knowing each other like a month and a half?” Keith questions, eyeing the two of them. 

“It was _ two _ months and you know it,” Tex corrects, but the point stands. “And we weren’t setting a record for you to break, baby.” 

“Kolivan wasn’t exactly pleased with either of us afterward, either,” Krolia mutters before polishing off her husband’s drink. 

They’re softened on the idea of his leaving, though, judging by the murmuring between themselves slowly turning from skeptical to thoughtfully accepting. They’d just been _ too _ effective in steering their son toward a relationship, it’s decided— they’d only meant to give little nudges here and there, creating little opportunities for Keith to spend time with the polite and handsome newcomer he was so obviously interested in, and instead they’re about to lose their son for a week.

But they_ do _ like Shiro, after all, and they’re happy for Keith. Even if things are moving at a surprising speed, they trust his judgment. 

“He’s always gone at his own pace when it comes to dating, which up until now has been pretty much… standstill,” Tex whispers to Krolia, not quite out of Keith’s earshot. “Honestly? Going zero-to-sixty kinda suits him.” 

His mom nods, shrugs, and sighs. When she looks to Keith, it’s with a look of loving exasperation. “Very well, Keith. We hope you and Shiro enjoy your trip. You’re so grown-up,” she says, somewhere between proud and lamenting as she cups his face. “But we’ll never not worry about keeping you safe, you know.”

“I know,” Keith whispers back, smiling as he’s folded against her in a hug. “And I’ll be fine.”

He bolts to the living room to give Shiro the good news, practically leaping into his arms, and then excuses himself to go pack his things. Keith is halfway through filling a duffel bag with clothes when his dad ambles in with an armful of toiletries and snacks to take along, piling them into Keith’s bag whenever clothes aren’t actively being shoved inside it.

“Some snacks for the road,” Tex says, stuffing in sunflower seeds and spicy trail mix and twinkies. “Here’s some sunscreen, so don't forget about it. And make sure you reapply it every... two hours? Huh,” he mumbles, frowning at the back of the bottle. "Every two hours.” 

“Shiro seems like a stickler about sunscreen, so I should be fine,” Keith says, hoping to reassure him.

“Good, good. That’s good. Oh, I grabbed your swimming trunks out of the laundry room for you,” his dad says, laying them neatly atop the small, rumpled mountain of clothes already in Keith’s hastily thrown-together bag. “And I’ve, uh, also got you covered on these.” 

Keith briefly glances up from the drawer he’s digging in, a fistful of underwear bunched in hand, and does a double-take. His jaw slips open of its own accord.

In his dad’s hand dangles a lengthy chain of silvery foil packets, which he offers to Keith like it’s nothing more embarrassing than a first-aid kit. 

“Where did you— oh… oh, no…” Keith trails off, pained realization turning his expression sour. They're not just any condoms, either— no, they’re his _ parents’ _ condoms, no doubt fished from somewhere in the master bedroom for the sole purpose of handing them off to Keith. 

“Condoms are condoms, son,” Tex says, tossing the foil packets into the duffel bag even as Keith drops what he's holding just to bury his face in his hands and groan. “Don’t— just don’t think about it, okay? Nowhere’s open at this hour and I’d rather you be prepared.”

“Thanks,” Keith mumbles through his fingers, still stunned by the sheer number of condoms his dad had seen fit to give him. On some level he’s grateful, truly, for the open support; on a more immediate and visceral level, Keith wants a sinkhole to open and swallow him. Now. 

His dad gives him a gentle pat, sympathetic to the paralyzing awkwardness. He then takes it upon himself to organize Keith’s haphazardly filled duffel bag, expertly folding everything into perfect rectangles that won’t wrinkle.

As soon as the back is stuffed full and zippered shut, Keith hauls ass back downstairs and finds his mom and Shiro in the living room mid-interrogation. Or it _looks_ like an interrogation, at least, judging by Shiro’s sweatiness and the notepad in Krolia’s hands.

“Getting his name and plate number?” Keith dryly mutters as he takes up a place at Shiro’s side, hovering protectively. 

“Already had them jotted down,” his mom answers, just as deadpan. “I just wanted to have a little chat with Shiro about how to get in touch with us if you two need anything. I have contacts _ everywhere_, after all. One word and they could be on your doorstep within minutes.”

Keith rolls his eyes as she tears off a sheet of paper with her number and his dad’s scrawled across it, folds it neatly, and tucks it into the front pocket of Shiro’s shirt. “If anything should happen, don’t hesitate to give us a call.” 

“You sure you don’t want to stay the night here, Shiro?” Tex asks from where he leans in the living room doorway. “We could have the guest room ready in a jiffy.”

“O-Oh. Oh, no, that’s— it’s fine. I’d hate to inconvenience you any further,” he stammers out, futilely trying to wave off Tex’s repeated offers to spend the night here, under the roof of the parents of the guy he very recently traded hickeys with. “A-And I already paid for another night in the motel anyway. Might as well use it.”

“Yeah. And I’ll go stay at the motel with him. To keep him company,” Keith says, shouldering his duffel bag and shuffling nervously. “It’s just so we can leave early in the morning,” he tells his parents, cheeks reddening as neither of them looks especially surprised or convinced by his reasoning. 

“I’m sure,” Krolia says, resisting a smile as she runs a hand through Keith’s hair and then folds him into a tight hug. Tex slings his arms around the both of them, squeezing tight as he lifts his wife and son inches off the ground. 

They both shake hands goodbye with Shiro after, iron-gripped and smiling.

“Hey,” Tex says, beckoning Keith back while Shiro loads his bags into the car. “If you’re even a little bit unhappy, you can call us and we’ll be there in three hours tops to bring you home, alright?” 

Keith’s expression turns embarrassed and pleading; he prays Shiro is too far away to overhear his father’s low drawl. “Dad…”

“I mean it,” Tex insists, pulling him in and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You let us know if you need _ anything _at all. Love you, kid. Take care.”

“Have fun, Keith,” his mom tells him, drawing him in for one last hug. “And you too, Shiro. Text us when you get there and let us know how you’re doing. Send us lots of pictures, too." 

“And bring us back some seashells!” his dad calls as they clamber into the Volvo, waving. 

“The sheriff’s not going to come after me, is she?” Shiro questions as he pulls out onto the road, glancing up at the rearview mirror. Keith’s parents still linger on the porch, watching them leave. 

“Doubtful,” Keith snorts.

“That’s not a no,” Shiro murmurs under his breath.

As soon as they get to the motel, Keith holds true to his word. While Shiro sits in a tight ball on the bed, his arms looped around bent knees, Keith checks everywhere for scorpions. He wastes no time knocking one off of a wall and stomping another as it scuttles toward the bed.

Shiro’s dark eyes go wide, staring up at Keith like he’s a knight in shining armor rather than a stand-in exterminator in a shitty motel. The blatant admiration puts a little pep in Keith's step as he picks up the squished bugs with wadded toilet paper and flushes them.

"You didn't even scream when you stepped on it," Shiro observes, awed.

Keith can’t deny that the little surge of confidence that hits whenever Shiro is impressed with him feels good. _ Really _good. Especially when he’s rewarded with fervent kisses, too, and Shiro hastily tugging off his shirt as he expresses his gratitude.

The bed under them is cheap and squeaky, the springs in the mattress poking into him wherever his weight settles, and Keith is touched anew by Shiro’s initial offer to stay here rather than leave for his luxe rental on the beach— all to share more time together, to know Keith better. 

Keith lets himself go in Shiro’s arms, kissing hard and overeager. Sloppy, even, in his rush to regain lost ground. Truly desperate, he fumblingly claws off his own shirt and jeans, moaning as he rocks his boxer-clad hips against the thick thigh he’s currently straddling. A late bloomer in everything, or so it feels, Keith’s never gotten this far with anyone before— something he only admits with his face buried in the safety of Shiro’s broad shoulder, hoping it doesn’t make Shiro think he needs to be handled with kid gloves.

When Keith lifts his head, he finds Shiro’s mouth open in a perfect and silent little _ oh, _ long lashes beating as he blinks at him in surprise.

“Really? And you want your first time to be with me? Here?” Shiro asks in a tone that reads half flattered and half incredulous. His pretty head tilts as he glances around the room— from the hideous wall art to the ugly carpet, and then to the rickety bed with its scratchy sheets.

“Yeah,” Keith answers, his voice low and husky-dry. His hands curl tighter around Shiro’s shoulders. “With you, anywhere.”

He seals his lips against Shiro’s with syrupy slowness, nails dragging as he runs them up Shiro’s neck and into short, dark hair that’s downy soft under his fingertips. A whine crawls out of Keith as a metal thumb runs over the seams along the front of his boxers, tracing the hardening shape masked behind black fabric stretched taut. Shiro’s other hand fans at the small of his back, pressing him closer inward.

And just as everything seems to be moving in the direction Keith wants, Shiro jolts still and pulls back, interrupting the kiss.

“Oh. Oh, shit, Keith. I didn’t— I wasn’t planning on meeting anyone, so I didn’t even bring any—”

“Don’t worry! I came prepared,” Keith purrs in his ear, excited for the chance to be the suave savior of their evening. He springs up from the bed and darts to his bag, rummaging through it while Shiro sits up to watch. Eager to get back to the bed, he grabs the first condom he sees and raises it high, triumphant— then belatedly realizes that it’s still connected to a dozen other foil packets, forming a chain of condoms so long that it ends somewhere in the depths of his duffel.

Shiro’s eyebrows raise, eyes fixed on the condoms dangling from Keith’s hand. He nibbles his bottom lip, doing a poor job of keeping a straight face. “_Very _ prepared. Think that’ll last us the night?” 

“Hah hah. I seriously doubt we could go through twenty-some confoms before dawn,” Keith deadpans, still blushing deeply all over. But the sight of Shiro sprawled out for him on the cheap hotel bed almost leaves him questioning— for all Keith knows, once he lays his hands on Shiro, he’ll be like a man possessed. “Unless…?” he asks as he tears off one of the silvery foil packets and tosses it at Shiro, voice lilting upward.

Shiro rolls his eyes as the condom bounces lightly against one of his rounded pecs and lands flush between them, leaving him even more the perfect picture of temptation— propped up on bent elbows and bare all the way down to his waist, sporting tousled hair and kiss-plumped lips, a warm sheen building on his flushed skin. His gaze breaks from Keith’s only to fall upon his own body instead, lingering on the shoulder ringed with healed-over burns and the scars that branch across his chest in jagged, uneven slashes. 

Shiro shifts, suddenly looking self-conscious under the intensity of both Keith’s stare and his own. “I, um… this is… more of me than most people see.” 

The wavering note of insecurity that backs Shiro’s nervous words is more than enough to spur Keith into motion. He practically dives back onto the bed, on all fours as he clambers over Shiro again, his unabashed zeal winning him a bright, toothy smile and sweetly surprised laughter.

“Everything okay, Shiro?”

"Yeah. Yes." Shiro nods, biting his bottom lip through his smile. Prosthetic fingers sift through the locks of Keith's black hair, drawing him closer. "More than okay, Keith. Just," he swallows audibly, his thumb fondly caressing Keith's cheek, "forgot how I look, for a minute there. And usually I’m so worried about it, I can’t think of anything else. But I forgot I’m— I’m—” 

“Beautiful?” Keith suggests, his smile softening as Shiro lets out a doubtful little noise.

“Scarred to hell and back, more like,” Shiro replies, trying hard to be nonchalant about it. “I meant to give you a little warning beforehand. Got too excited, I guess.”

“I knew you had scars, Shiro. I don’t mind them. And no one else should, either,” he huffs as he shimmies higher, his bent legs splayed on either side of Shiro's hips. Keith leans in and kisses him deep without a millisecond of hesitation, pleased when Shiro kisses back just as intently, whatever worry raised its ugly head hopefully laid to rest. “The only warning I need from you is a drool-advisory whenever you’re about to do something extra sexy.” 

Shiro’s little laugh is swallowed up in their next kiss, Keith happily and hungrily devouring it. He can feel the extra give as Shiro relaxes underneath him, pliant again, almost comfortable atop the lumpy mattress. Broad hands cup around his ribs before sliding sinuously slow down to his waist, nearly touching finger-to-finger at the narrowest little dip. 

“Can I take these off?” Keith asks in a gasped whisper, almost a plea, forehead rubbing against Shiro’s cheek as he shoves a hand down between them to fumble with Shiro’s buttoned jeans. He wants to see Shiro— all of Shiro— and feel him, too. 

“You can do whatever you want, Keith,” Shiro answers, his dark eyes almost mischievous as he abruptly raises his hips and helps slips the jeans off. His underwear, too, Keith notes as his eye follows the trail of dark hair that begins under Shiro’s navel. “However you want.”

He licks his lips as he takes in the spread of Shiro’s body underneath him— generously filled-out chest heaving, his muscles flexing under smooth skin. Keith’s eye trails further, down to the full, blushing cock resting against Shiro’s hip, and his breath sputters to a stop. It’s as gorgeous as the rest of Shiro, truthfully, a perfect match for him in size and aching thickness. At the periphery of Keith’s vision, he catches the slightest movement of Shiro’s mouth curling into a self-satisfied smile. 

A heady flutter shoots through him at the thought of Shiro putting _ all of that _ inside of him, stuffing him so tight he could burst at the seams. Keith’s spent untold, ungodly hours picturing himself in all sorts of compromising positions with Shiro, but in this moment all he wants is to let Shiro take control and guide him exactly where he needs to go. He wants Shiro’s strong hands to lift his hips high and grip him tight while he slakes the thirst that’s been building in him for six slow months and twenty-four especially excruciating hours. He wants _ Shiro. _ Now.

“Fuck me. Please. Like this,” Keith says, rolling until his back rests on the mattress, needily tugging Shiro over on top of him. He watches as Shiro’s eyes fall half-lidded, hazy, the grey going deeper and darker under the cast of his long lashes.

Shiro's smile remains soft as ever, though, even as he rolls Keith’s black briefs down his legs and tosses them aside. “I’ll go slow,” he promises. At Keith’s sudden glare and the pleading little part of his lips, Shiro laughs, kisses his brow, and adds, “But not _ too _ slow.”

Keith snorts and bucks his slim hips up against Shiro as the very last of his patience fizzles out. “Please. I need you inside me, Shiro. _ All _ of you.”

Shiro answers with the gentle kiss of cool, oiled aluminum against the seam of his ass, the blunt tips of metal fingers circling his hole before pressing inward one at a time. One finger alone leaves Keith squirming back against Shiro’s firm hand, eager for more; two makes his back arch, but it’s still far from enough to satisfy. There’s an edge to the way Shiro moves within him, at least— a desperation underneath all the effort to be gentle, a hurriedness in how he scissors his fingers before plunging them in up to the knuckle.

Keith grins crookedly as Shiro pants harder above him, worked up into a lather just from fingering him open. There’s a hungry, fervent glint in Shiro’s eyes that spikes Keith’s pulse, waking all kinds of base desires he’d never given much thought to. One sharp look draws Keith’s already hard cock to aching attention, the curl of those fingers and their lightly-textured silicone pads brushing over a spot that has him wailing in need. Through it all, Keith gets the distinct impression that Shiro is almost as frustrated and greedy for it as he is, eager to ram his cock inside of him without further preamble.

And it’s reassuring to know that he isn’t alone in being stupidly, impatiently horny, but Keith appreciates how hard Shiro is fighting to keep it together. Like a gentleman.

He’s left woefully empty as Shiro’s slick prosthetic digits withdraw, keening for their loss. Lubricated latex meets his skin next, something unmistakably blunt and firm slipping against the rosy, puffy pucker of his hole. It takes a firmly guiding hand from Shiro, but at last his cockhead sinks past that tender ring of muscle and buries itself deep.

There are a few hitches along the way— moments where the smooth slide of Shiro’s cock hits a tight snag, Keith’s body not quite ready to accommodate all the girth being pressed into him. He curls his fingers into the sheets and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, swallowing down little moans as Shiro works his hips until he can budge another inch deeper.

Keith groans as Shiro finally bottoms out, the sound punched right out of his chest. The fullness he holds within him is like a weight altering the center of his gravity, his breathing, the boundaries of his own body.

“Good?” Shiro asks as he leans in to leave a messy kiss along his jaw. He looms massive above Keith, all solid muscle straining to hold still while Keith grows comfortable with the feel of him.

“Y-Yeah,” Keith croaks out, struggling to focus his cross-eyed double-vision on Shiro. His hands curl and cling to the slopes of perfect shoulders, blunt nails slipping over skin already glowing with a sheen of sweat. With feeble little gasps at every miniscule shift of Shiro’s length inside of him, Keith brings his legs up around Shiro’s middle and squeezes tight, pouring all of his strength into trembling thighs. “Go on and fuck me, Shiro. I wanna feel it tomorrow.”

There’s a low rumble of cursing above him, things muttered under Shiro’s breath. But his broad, solid body begins to move against Keith in a rippling, full-body smother, his fat cock slipping out a few inches before sinking right back in, swift enough to punch the air from Keith’s lungs. His hips roll quicker and snap harder, smacking into Keith’s ass in a rhythm that shakes the bed under them and knocks its frame into the wall. 

And Keith _ loves _ every second of it— all the more when Shiro leans down to meet him in messy kisses and shared, panted breaths and borderline giggling as the squeaking of the bed’s ancient springs rises to a fever pitch underneath them. He grabs a palmful of Shiro’s chest and squeezes tight, clinging to him even as he sinks down into the mattress, laid a little deeper with every forceful stroke.

There’ll be a time for slow exploration and sensuality when they’re on the beach, when his patience isn’t stretched to an atom-thick thread and his body isn’t starving for Shiro’s dick. Right now, though, all Keith wants is exactly what he’s getting— Shiro all over him, inside him, _ part _ of him. The hands wrapped tight around his hips will leave bruises; the size of him is going to leave Keith sore.

And all Keith can manage to ask for is _ more. _

* * *

When he wakes the next morning, it's to bright sunlight slipping through the blinds, the muffled playing of a radio outside, and a profound satisfaction he can’t remember ever finding in any one of the thousands of mornings to precede it.

It runs deep through Keith, physical and emotional, a kind of closeness with another that he's never known, seen and felt and tasted. You can’t really miss what you've never had, but… Keith’s glad to have found it, at any rate. Him. Shiro.

It takes some searching to find Shiro’s hand amid the sweaty tangle of their limbs, the both of them somehow lying almost sideways on the uncomfortable bed. But Keith does, his slim fingers fitting easily between Shiro’s, holding his hand til he wakes. Which Shiro does with a slow, sleepy smile that melts Keith’s heart into molten goo, bubbling with feelings he doesn’t quite know what to do with. Any little shred of worry he’d held onto over how falling into bed with Shiro might change things between them crumples like ash.

“Hey, baby,” Shiro greets, a slight fray to his perfect, beautiful voice. His skin is bright, practically glowing— everywhere but the dark, reddened lovebites laid carelessly at the hollow of his throat and across his chest. And the little half-moon imprints left on his biceps, where Keith’s blunt nails dug in hard. “How’d you sleep?"

“Low quantity, high quality,” Keith grins, convinced that Shiro’s chest might be the best pillow he’s ever slept on in his life. He’s a little sore, but no worse than he might be after a long ride up to the mountains; the ache iself is anything but unpleasant, every dull twinge a perfect reminder of being stuffed full of Shiro. 

If anything, he’s a little bit tempted to roll Shiro over once more, squeezing in one last round before they hit the road… 

But check-out is in an hour and there’s somewhere better awaiting them— with a sturdier bed and thicker walls and fewer bugs, he hopes. They take turns jumping into the shower, devour half the energy bars that Keith’s dad gave him, and then haul their luggage to the lobby. The manager at the front desk mentions a few noise complaints as Shiro pays for the stay, shooting the two of them severely unamused looks. Their stare drifts past a bashfully flustered Shiro to linger on Keith instead, no doubt recognizing him as the sheriff’s son.

Inwardly, Keith groans. It’s a small town. Word gets around. And this? Keith Kogane shacking up at the motel with the handsome stranger that just blew into town? That’s top tier grocery-aisle gossip that’s all too likely to circle back to his parents.

His lips quirk to one side, not loving the idea of the local busybodies having a field day. But it’s less out of worry for himself and more for the sake of his mom and dad, already no strangers to standing up on his behalf against scurrilous rumors and snide insinuations. But it’s hard to let common pettiness get to him when he has a week with Shiro to look forward to. Keith feels as though he’s treading atop clouds as he follows Shiro out to the car, stows his bag in the trunk, and settles into the passenger seat. 

About halfway into the five-hour trip, though, the euphoria starts to wane and Keith almost, _ almost _ regrets begging Shiro to leave him aching. He squirms in his seat, trying to get comfortable, and each and every time he thinks of Shiro’s broad hands folded around his waist and his cock filling him to a stretch. 

“You okay over there?” Shiro asks in between scarfing down sour straws from one of the eight packs they’d bought at the last stop, eyeing Keith as he fights with the seatbelt to tuck a bent leg under himself. “Do you want me to pull over?” 

“Nah, I’m fine. Just a little sore from your big dick is all,” Keith says, struggling to keep a straight face as he pats Shiro’s thigh.

Shiro sputters mid-sip of his watermelon slushie, the car swerving within their lane. He stares straight ahead for the next mile, blushing red up to the tips of his ears, stockstill under the hand still gently kneading at his thigh. And Keith doesn’t object when Shiro makes another pitstop shortly after to ‘stretch his legs,’ which really means rifling through the oversized first aid kit in the trunk for some ibuprofen to sheepishly offer him. 

The rest of the ride passes in a blur of changing scenery, billboards for sketchy-looking adult stores, and Keith feeding Shiro sour straws as he tries to navigate his way to the beach house. 

He can’t remember the last time he visited the coast, honestly. It had to have been some time as a kid, on one of their rare family trips. And he and his parents definitely never stayed in a place this nice— airy and oversized for two guests, all white linen and plush furniture and fancy fixtures. Keith snaps pictures to send home to his parents, who join in on marveling at the luxe rental. 

And then he seeks out the smallest bedroom and drops his bag on the bed, claiming it for his own. Not that he wouldn’t rather share the master suite (and its bed, and every waking or sleeping hour) with Shiro, but the last thing Keith wants is to wear out his welcome. Even if they did sleep together last night… even if Keith is still itching to throw himself at Shiro... and even if the first thing Shiro does in the master suite is test the give of the bed, giving Keith a metallic thumbs up when it doesn’t buckle or squeak in the slightest.

The couch is where they end up instead, though, through the flimsiest of excuses— Keith clearing his throat and telling Shiro how good the view of the beach is from its seat, as if they couldn’t just step out onto the deck and see the ocean even better. As if there’s a single room in the beach house that doesn’t offer a spectacular vista of the skies or waves outside. But Shiro’s more than willing to go along with it, dropping a knee onto the couch and pretending to admire the view out the sliding glass door as he pets his way up Keith’s thigh and under his shirt. 

The white cushions underneath them nudge out of place as he and Shiro twine around each other with increasing desperation, kisses and heavy petting quickly giving way to half-dressed rutting and lovebites that’ll linger for days. Gracelessly, they eventually tumble to the living room floor in a heap, Keith landing atop Shiro in a tangle of pointed elbows and rucked up clothing. Undeterred, they pick up where they left off upon the couch, bouts of silly, breathless laughter interrupting their best efforts to make out until they’re blue in the face. And it isn’t long before Keith scrambles his way down the hall to the room where his duffel bag sits, his socked feet skidding on the wooden floors as he sprints back to Shiro with a ridiculously long chain of condoms whipping behind him.

Shiro orders dinner in that night, the two of them too worn out to even contemplate leaving the comfort of the beach house. They spread across the living room floor, legs stretched out amid dozens of containers of food, chatting as they put away a small Mediterranean feast and dessert from a nearby bakery. Once the night is full and they've talked themselves hoarse, they make their way down the hallway toward their bedrooms, still wheezing from one of Shiro’s stories about a dental hygienist named Lance. At the door to the master suite, Shiro stops short; Keith follows suit, trailing into silence.

“You, uh, don’t have to sleep with me, obviously,” Shiro murmurs, a hand raking through the hair at the back of his head. “But… you can, if you want. Anytime. Even if you don’t feel like doing anything but sleeping.” 

Keith hums, glancing past Shiro and into the bedroom, wistfully. The only place he wants to be is by Shiro's side. “Don’t want you to get tired of me too quick,” he whispers instead, softening the truth in his words with a smile.

“Keith,” Shiro sighs as he leans against the doorframe, hopelessly fond. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of you.”

It’s all the enabling Keith needs. 

They start the night on either side of Shiro’s california king, somehow less certain of themselves than when they were rutting across the bamboo flooring earlier. It feels altogether new and different, more unfamiliar to Keith than anything else they’ve done so far. When they shared a bed in the hotel, it was after a few rounds of fucking so frantic and exhausting that he’d passed out on top of Shiro the moment he finished. This time, there’s nothing to distract from the quiet intimacy of breathing side by side, the vulnerability in falling asleep in someone else’s presence.

“Does this bother you?” Shiro asks as he plugs in a small soundmachine on the nightstand, raising the volume until white noise gently blankets the room. “I usually can’t sleep without it.”

Keith blinks slow and gives his head a little shake, cheek pushing into the pillow under his head. “Nah. Doesn’t bother me in the slightest.” 

And maybe it’s the steady drone of the static or the weariness of the day or the simple comfort of having Shiro close, but Keith’s eyes flutter shut and sleep takes him in no time at all. 

Come morning, Keith finds he’s migrated to the center of the bed. So has Shiro. They rest in a clump together under the covers, Keith plastered to Shiro’s back with the tenacity of a barnacle. His arms are slung snug around Shiro’s ribs, one hand lazily cupped over the bulge of Shiro’s left pec. Both of their bodies are sticky with sweat from being pressed so tightly together, and—

And… his dick is poking firmly into the small of Shiro’s back, perhaps the hardest morning wood Keith’s ever awoken to.

“You too, huh?” Shiro laughs when Keith grumbles and buries his face in the Shiro’s shoulder, mortified.

Keith moves his stuff into the master suite with Shiro that morning, all pretenses of not diving into this relationship headfirst and full-bodied given up. He’s head-over-heels already— willingly, undeniably— and the best consolation is that Shiro seems to be in the same boat. 

The next night, tangled together in white linen sheets and bathed in the moonlight falling through the skylight above the bed, Keith shyly admits to all the times he’d watched and listened to Shiro's ASMR videos with… less than wholesome intentions.

“The first time, it just kind of… happened,” he says, toying with the corner of the pillowcase rather than risk meeting Shiro’s eyes. “I was tired, I was hard, I always listened to you before I fell asleep… but it felt so good. So personal. Like I wasn’t just jacking off alone in my room anymore, but you were— I could imagine it so easy. You being there.”

Keith bites down on his lip hard enough to make it blanch, some ever-fearful part of him picturing Shiro cringing away from him, deciding he’s too pitiful to be around. Those worries are immediately soothed away with a flurry of kisses over his brow and down his nose and on his lips, strong hands drawing Keith in close and threading through his hair. 

Though sporting a heavy blush, Shiro is almost insufferably self-pleased. “Tell me about it,” he almost pleads, his voice dropped to a husky murmur. His dark eyes rove Keith’s face like he’s drinking him in for the first time, thirsty as the desert is for rain. “What did you do to yourself while you thought of me? Was it every night? Which videos did you watch the most? What about them did you like?” 

“Your hands,” Keith starts, overwhelmed by Shiro’s obvious and amorous interest. He wraps his fingers around Shiro’s wrist and guides his hand down his belly and between his legs, rolling his hips forward to meet its firm, broad palm, “your voice, your smile, the way your words made me feel… all of it. You're everything to me, Shiro.”

He’s not even a little bit surprised when Shiro asks for a demonstration, his stormcloud grey eyes already half-lidded at the thought of watching Keith get off to the sound of his voice alone. 

They spend the rest of the week enjoying themselves— always on Shiro’s dime, no matter how many times Keith pulls out his wallet and offers to pay. They cherry-pick from Shiro's original schedule, taking their time wherever they go, enjoying good food and each other's company. They visit the local museums, taking selfies together to send back home. They walk the seashore, plucking up shells and exploring tidepools. And as they dine in seaside restaurants, Shiro orders so many appetizers and desserts to share that there isn’t an inch of free space on the table. 

Within walking distance, there’s even a pier stacked with carnival rides and games, complete with a ferris wheel spinning slow at its end. They ride it round until Shiro’s out of cash, and then Keith too. The sunset is even better from up here, high enough above the crowds and the shore to watch it sink beneath the waves— and the moonrise is just as pretty, nestled against Shiro’s side as its milky white begins to glitter across the dark water. 

They’re a few days in when Keith decides to make a second attempt at doing ASMR, for whatever it’s worth. (And it’s worth a lot to Shiro, it seems.) It still feels awkward and a little embarrassing, but the filming is easier with Shiro’s guidance— and being in a quiet bedroom rather than a noisy mechanic shop certainly helps, too. 

While the camera rolls on them, he reclines on the bed with Shiro’s head pillowed in his lap; those lovely grey eyes flutter shut, full lips curved in a faint smile as Keith dotes on him. Slender fingers trace patterns over Shiro’s scarred skin, tap soft against his temples, and comb through white-and-black hair. And all the while, he whispers to Shiro everything that comes to mind— how pretty his lashes are, how much he loves the softness of his lips and the taste of his sweet, citrusy balm. How much he loves sunrise over canyon walls and camping under the stars; how badly he wants to take Shiro out there sometime, the next chance they can both get away. 

Keith still watches through his fingers as Shiro replays the video, the sound of his own voice playing back completely alien to his ears. But overall, it’s not terrible. Shiro even seems to love it, nibbling his bottom lip through a broad smile as he skips back and forth, replaying his favorite parts.

“You can’t show anyone,” Keith tells him, just to be clear. “Not even Allura.”

Shiro cups the phone close to his ample chest, over his heart, holding it like something secret and precious. “Of course,” he says, giving Keith a quick wink. “Personal use only.”

Their vacation on the beach draws to an end, as all things must, leaving Keith morose as he packs up his duffel and loads bags of souvenirs into Shiro’s car. He spends the whole ride home nibbling his thumbnail, sun-tanned and anxious, the bliss of his carefree week with Shiro replaced with a needy ache that deepens with every mile they travel inland.

Shiro spends the night at his family’s house this time, welcomed back with excitement and open arms. No uncomfortable motel stay. No guest room, either, Shiro’s need to be with his boyfriend winning out over the red-faced embarrassment of having to look Tex and Krolia in the eye and ask to stay in their son’s room instead. He and Keith stand side-by-side at the foot of the stairs, a united front, their sweaty-palmed hands linked as they hold tight to one another. 

“Alright,” Krolia allows after letting them both dangle for a few drawn moments, her lean arms crossed. Like Kolivan, she’s a master at making her face hard and unreadable— but Keith thinks he sees a flicker of amusement under all that stern glaring, even if it’s too faint for a trembling Shiro to notice.

“Just try to keep it down,” Tex whispers before following his wife as she turns on her heel. His dark brows rise meaningfully. _ Knowingly. _ “This ain’t some cheap hotel.”

His parents’ approximate knowledge of his sex life is a disquieting thing to grapple with; Keith expects it’ll put a damper on he and Shiro trying anything while under their roof, the embarrassment too fresh to risk digging themselves in deeper.

But that feeling only lasts an hour or so, until they’ve crowded into his bed and snuggled close. Keith draws his hand slow down Shiro’s front, trying to memorize every dip and curve of him. He kisses Shiro slow, tongue sweeping over full lips and a row of perfect teeth, and fucks him even slower. It’s an exercise in patience and self-denial that leaves him clawing into the mattress and choking down groans whenever Shiro’s thighs flex around him, but he needs to make this last. The hush that’s fallen over his dimmed room is thin, their low, panted breaths barely masked by the whirring of Shiro’s sound machine. And Keith can’t hold out any longer once he sees Shiro bite down on a curled finger to muffle the cries that threaten to spill out of him with every thrust, his metal fingers and sculpted abs already dripping with a fresh coat of white.

Shiro leaves late the next morning, after a long breakfast in which everyone at the table pointedly avoids mentioning their wildly disheveled hair, the hickeys dotting their throats, or the fact that he and Keith hold hands under the table the entire time. He lingers more than an hour saying goodbye, sweating in the shade of the front porch as he promises to call and to text and to come back to visit. And though he’s as reluctant to leave as Keith is to see him go, he has a job to get back to. A dental practice. A house. A whole life in the city, hours away. 

Keith feels like a balloon with all the helium punched out once Shiro’s gone, limply adrift as he tries to fall back into his old ways before the love of his life stumbled into town. Work. Drawing. Hiking with his dad and visiting family with his mom. Riding his bike alone. 

He has texts to look forward to, at least, traded damn near constantly that first week apart. Keith gets one right before Shiro updates his channel with a new video— two words and two emoji, with a youtube link right after. 

**Shiro, 4:17pm:** For you 😘🏍️

It’s forty glorious minutes of Shiro's leather-gloved hands running over the sleek black body of his Hayabusa, gently pulling it apart as he does simple maintenance work in a clean, immaculately organized garage that Keith would love to play around in. And even if there are hundreds of thousands of people watching, it's really just for _ him. _

Keith. 

They spend months dating long-distance, through texts and video chats and phone calls that stretch until they both fall asleep on the line. Keith still watches Shiro’s videos religiously, although now he has a small accompanying library of ones made just for him— personalized, Shiro’s voice murmuring his name, just like he’d always wanted.

Shiro does the same, habitually watching recordings of Keith as he drifts off. Even the crappy one of him working on the Volvo in his uncle’s shop. _ Especially _ that one, Shiro says. The perfect reminder of where and when they first met. 

And true to his word, Shiro takes long weekends just to drive down and meet him, becoming something of a regular around town. They go camping with Keith’s new puppy— a stray he found on one of the highland trails, golden-eyed and fluffy and never one to bark— and share late dinners with his parents, who know never to bother readying the guest room for his stays. 

Almost as often, Keith makes the four hour ride northeast to visit Shiro, his red bike streaking through the desert and onto rolling green foothills, heart singing anytime he's on his way to him. Shiro’s city is bustling by comparison, alive with places to go and things to do— shopping centers and upscale dining, theatres and lush nature trails and exuberant holiday celebrations. But usually they opt to stay in together, spending the weekend curled close in Shiro’s wide bed as they watch movies, work on their bikes in the garage, and spend hours fucking each other to blissful exhaustion before they’re tugged apart again. 

After maybe six months of their back-and-forth traveling, Shiro takes him to a ritzy fine-dining place downtown and introduces him to Allura, his dentistry partner and oldest friend. She’s all charm and class, perfectly poised as she bypasses Keith’s nervous handshake to offer him a kiss on the cheek instead, greeting him like a well-missed friend rather than a mysterious stranger dating her best friend.

There’s no mistaking that he’s being appraised as they share dinner, even if Allura flashes him a smile as blindingly perfect as Shiro’s after every politely scrutinizing question. He figures he’s passed whatever bar she’d set when she finally slumps back in her chair, takes a sip from her long-ignored glass of rose, and concludes, “Well, I can see you’re just as hopelessly smitten with Shiro as he is with you. I’m glad for it.”

Keith smiles through expensive bites of rare steak, glad as the conversation moves into less interrogative territory— all silly stories about Shiro and Allura’s antics in school and the daily workings of their shared practice.

And as Keith returns from the restroom around dessert-time, overhears Allura relentlessly teasing Shiro about how blatantly in love they are and dragging him for playing footsie with Keith under the table, as if she wouldn’t notice. 

“Right in front of me and my salad,” she quietly tsks while Shiro turns a color resembling his pinot noir, the both of them smiling bright as they welcome Keith back to the table. 

Come the first breaking of spring, Keith’s parents are more than understanding when he floats the idea of moving in with Shiro, even if it takes him and Kosmo hundreds of miles from them.

"As long as you come home to visit us," Krolia says, she and Tex hugging him tight. They make space when Kosmo rises up on his hind legs and tries to join in on the group hug. "And Shiro, too."

Tex and Krolia help pack up his room, the three of them reminiscing as they sift through old mementos and fill sturdy boxes with his old sketchbooks, his video games, the ancient bootleg DVDs of his favorite childhood mecha cartoons. They help haul his stuff up to Shiro’s place, too, Kosmo peering out the back window of the truck as Keith follows behind them on his bike, watching to make sure none of the boxes break free of their bungee cords and tumble onto the freeway.

His dad, of course, makes a show of trying out every appliance in Shiro’s suburban house once they're done unpacking, whistling in soft appreciation at each one. “Quite a fridge you’ve got here,” he calls from the kitchen while they’re still trying to set up his playstation in the den. “You could chill half a dozen pies in here, easy, and still have plenty of room for your soymilk and whatnot besides.”

And his mother takes it upon herself to give the house a safety inspection, painstakingly checking over every window, every lock, every smoke alarm and potential fire hazard. “I replaced all the batteries,” she says over lunch, matter-of-factly, before depositing a baggy filled with old nine-volt batteries on the counter. “And I fixed that wobbly handle on your upstairs faucet.” 

“Oh! Thanks, Krolia,” Shiro manages in between a few especially challenging bites of melty cheese pizza. “That’s been bugging me for weeks.” 

The next surprise comes in the form of housewarming gifts from both of his parents— another desert succulent for Shiro’s enormous and ever-growing window collection, a sturdy new foam bed for an ever-growing Kosmo, and a photo of the five of them from Shiro’s last visit in the midst of a Marmora family gathering. It’s centered in a handmade wooden frame, which Keith recognizes as repurposed slats from the wooden porch swing they’d had to replace after a freak windstorm whipped it right off its moors. The same swing he’d spent teenaged summers on, squeezed between his parents while they hurried to eat up melting popsicles. The one he’d shared with Shiro that first night they met— with butter pecan and a perfect view of the stars— and innumerable nights after. 

And the photo itself carries just as much emotional weight. In it, he sits at a picnic table, his arms around Shiro as he sits comfortably in his lap; his parents sit beside them, with Antok and Kolivan taking up most of the bench on the other side and dozens of cousins and family friends gathered around. It moves Keith, heart full of love and ache both. But he thinks it moves Shiro more.

His boyfriend sneakily wipes away a tear as the picture is unveiled, only to end up openly crying when Tex and Krolia proudly declare that he’s like a son to them, too. Their goodbye hug takes the better part of an hour, most of it spent on his mom and dad making sure that both of their boys know how well they’re loved; when they finally go, it’s with the promise that they’ll be back to check on them soon.

Family’s been a sore, complicated thing for Shiro for a long time, Keith knows. Most of his life, judging by the long, quiet conversations they've had with Shiro's head resting heavy on his chest, Keith's hands stroking soothingly through his hair. And Keith is grateful that his own has come to fill that painful void for Shiro— dozens of uncles and aunts and cousins who’ve already adopted him as one of the clan, along with parents to tell him that they love him without reserve, that they’re proud of him, that they can’t wait to see them both home for holidays.

With Shiro’s support, Keith makes a second go at finishing the art degree he'd dropped after a semester and a half. At the time, he’d been overwhelmed by the loneliness of his college experience, too far from home and too isolated among thousands of people— professors included— who he seemed to rub the wrong way on first sight. He’s had a few years to grow in confidence, though, and Shiro is an indispensable help when it comes to navigating the administrative tangle that always ensnared Keith before.

He works odd shifts at the nearby coffee shop just to prevent Shiro from (willingly, eagerly) footing the bill for everything from his books to his tuition— but it's nice to know he doesn't _ have _ to.

In time, Keith even makes his first debut on Shiro’s ASMR channel (as a waving hand and a disembodied ‘hey’) while he helps Shiro record a roleplay in which he draws a portrait of the viewer. Or he tries to, anyway. There's a lot they'll have to edit out.

“This video was inspired by my artist boyfriend, Keith, who is currently in art school,” Shiro brags as he smiles into the camera— and at Keith sitting just behind it, smiling back so full that his cheeks ache. “Did I mention he’s an artist? The _ best _ artist?"

Keith warms under all the attention as Shiro plays the part, those stunningly steely eyes fixed on him as Shiro murmurs compliments and pretends to sketch his likeness. Sitting in on Shiro recording feels a little like sharing a secret, the act he puts on for others to enjoy suddenly narrowed down to just the two of them where they sit on the bed, continually making each other laugh at the most inopportune times.

And this is where it started for them. For Keith, at least. It was a video just like this that first drew him into Shiro’s orbit, letting him know the face and voice of the man he’d one day brush past by chance, like a comet streaking by once in a hundred years— and as Shiro leans in past the camera and spoils the shot just to give him a kiss, Keith couldn’t be more grateful.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also have a few short side threads with extra info about this AU, like [Keith's parents](https://twitter.com/neyasochi/status/1140283025609113600) and [Shiro & Allura](https://twitter.com/neyasochi/status/1141361874639958016)
> 
> EDITED TO ADD A THING I FORGOT:  
In this au, Keith's fave childhood cartoon is Voltron. He gets Shiro to binge it with him one weekend and then convinces/bribes him to do a roleplay video together as the red & black paladins, fulfilling both a lifelong nerd-fantasy of being the red paladin, complete with bayard, AND a blessed opportunity to squeeze Shiro into a spandex bodysuit and dress him up as one of Keith's first cartoon crushes.


End file.
